


A West-Country Romance

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, Cornwall, Fist Fights, Forbidden Love, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Malnutrition, Master/Servant, Minor Violence, Pining, Poverty, Romance, country life, hints of past child abuse, mention of war, period typical attitudes towards child labour, poldark freeform, references to past corporal punishement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-03-29 02:21:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 91,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3878536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poldark AU --  Cornish gentleman Arthur Pendragon returns home from the American War of Independence to find everything changed.  He's heir to an estate that has fallen to ruin, his father has been lying in his grave for more than a year, gone without a goodbye or word of forgiveness, and his inteded is now his best friend's fiancée. As he tries to put his life back together, Arthur finds joy in hard work and love in the strangest of corners.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Wait is Over

**Author's Note:**

> I intend to post a new part every week or every few days (depening on the length of the installment) until this is finished, kmm style.
> 
> Merlocked18 created a fantastic peace of artwork featuring a Poldark inspired Merlin with all period features and a glimpse of Cornish landscape. It's beautiful, masterly done and it's [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4367372)

The sea shone bright in the long out-reaching rays of the sun. They bounced off the top of the waves, clothing them in a sheen of silver and of gold, they gilded the troughs and crests pink and cream, and it cast a golden radiance upon the horizon line. The ocean lay still, without surf or tides, with barely a ripple, combers lapping at the sand and shingle beaches opening at the bottom of the cliffs. Sea gulls winnowed the air with their wings, cutting across a purely blue sky scarcely streaked by clouds. It was a perfect day for sailing, for ships seeking harbour, for fishing, but only small skiffs and dinghies fended the water. They were small craft belonging to local fishermen, certainly not any vessel putting into port from further afield, from the outer reaches of the world.

It would have been the perfect day for it. But it wasn't happening, yet again.

Feeling the shape and warmth of it, Gwen clutched the ring that hung from the chain wound around her neck, toyed with it. As she did, she sank into a sweet memory that had the taste of a dream. 

They sat opposite each other on a chequered blanket with a frayed hem, a basket at their side, jam jars positioned at its four corners holding the blanket down against the wind. With the smell of blooming thrift in their nostrils, they ate slim sandwiches that came from the basket. They picked on the crumbs of soft biscuits Gwen had put in the oven herself. They bit into pasties rife with fresh butter and the tenderest mince meat. Rather than look into the other's eyes and blush, they dropped their gazes when they passed each other food, yet they fed themselves and talked and shared silences that tasted like quiet. Then the wind took one of the napkins, making it drift as if carried by wings, and Gwen jumped to her feet, trying to catch the errant object.

Discarding his silk coat, he went at a run. Hand out to stop its fluttering, he closed a fist around the the breeze and got the napkin for her. Limned in sunlight, crowned by it, he turned around, looking noble and strong and as handsome as any hero out of song or ballad. He smiled with a kindness that pierced her heart and handed the square of linen back to her. 'Thank you,' she murmured, her face hot not with the heat of the day but the one that came from the brushing of their hands

“It was nothing,' he said. “I felt like running.”

The rest of the afternoon was theirs to do what as they pleased. They finished their meal, the meal she had made early in the morning, flour on her brow, heart fluttering from the excitation that came from knowing she'd see him, and took a walk towards the cliff. They watched the breakers crash against the base of the rock, watched the shoreline appear and disappear under whorls of foam, and scanned the horizon for schooners, for boats. They watched fishermen dip their nets in the sea, haul in their catch. As they did, he told about trade and commerce, about France, about the world beyond Cornwall. 'There's so much to do out there, so much scope for honourable action.'

Because she admired his sense of duty, his ethics, she agreed. She told him he was undoubtedly right; there was so much a man like him could do. It wasn't a lie, after all. Though she knew that when he talked about action he didn't mean just any enterprise but the war in the colonies, she didn't openly refer to it. Distress lapped at her consciousness, made her want to wring her hands. She feared for him, wanted to be selfish and tell him to stay, honour be damned, but she knew she couldn't. Staying put while others risked their lives wasn't in his nature and he would despise her if she did ask, if she had him lead the life she wanted him to, away from danger, in a house to call their own, responsible only for each other's happiness and no one else's. But, no, that wasn't him. She lowered her head and kept quiet.

When the sun gilded the sea red and orange, he gave her his signet ring. She put her silver circlet on his little finger. 'This a promise, Arthur, a solemn one. I'll wait.'

Gwen sighed, shook free of the memory. She took the ring off the chain and slipped it in a pocket of her dress. Hers was, after all, a simple garment. With a last look at the glimmering sea, she turned around and directed her steps home. 

The land reared and rolled in every direction, as far as the eye could see, the only boundary the stark cliffs that weathered down to sea.

Her breath uneven, Gwen climbed the backs of heather-clothed hillocks and walked the length of green plains washed in sunlight. She plodded on, eyes on her feet, until she saw the familiar bulk of her house, stone and mortar and eaves she knew so well.

She entered the lawn by the creaking garden gate, the one matted with tangles of rose briars. The air smelled like flowers in bloom, like lavender and gorse, like spring, like every spring in the past three years. At a good pace, she slogged up a path shaded by trees that bent heavy over it. Needing the cool after her traipse to Penwith, she kept to their shadows. 

She only stopped short when she saw Lancelot sitting on a bench. His legs were out and his head was bent. His profile looked kind in the afternoon light, sweet and mellow, his features benevolent even in repose. Their beauty had the sweetest of casts.

Gwen smiled and, lifting her gown so she wouldn't trip, hurried over to him.

He didn't see her and only startled when she cast a shadow over him. 

“Miss Smith, you're here,” he said, sweeping up to a stand. “I've come with the express intent to see you, but your brother said you weren't in.”

“I went for a walk.” Gwen smoothed her gown down with both of her palms. “It was... refreshing.” For a moment she sank into introspection but then she brightened and added, “I hope you didn't get too bored with all the waiting.”

“Waiting is never boring when the reward is seeing you.” Lancelot's gaze shone true and sweet. “I'll always be happy to wait for you.”

Gwen looked away but then the import of his words truly sank into her and it no longer hurt or weighed her down with the brunt of its magnitude. She smiled and cocked her head to the side so as to better take him in. He looked particularly handsome today, not that he was ever anything but, but there was a happy mould to his features this Sunday that she hadn't seen on his face in a while. His smiles were wider and the light that came from his eyes was merrier, more hopeful. She wanted to treasure that, make sure she could ensure his happiness would last. “You won't have to anymore.”

“Pray, what?” he said much more cursorily than he was wont.

She wasn't certain if she ought to take his hand, if it was at all proper, so she didn't. But she made herself say it. “I've come to a decision. What I asked of you before...”

Understanding crossed Lancelot's face. “To wait.”

“Yes.” She exhaled hard. This was an important moment. She knew it because she could feel how fast her heart was beating, and how damp her hands were getting. She knew it because the air held still with promise. “I don't want you to wait anymore.”

Lancelot's eyes widened into a keen study of her. “Am I mistaken in thinking you don't want me to stand on my old promise?”

“No.” She shook her head, a smile on her lips.”You're not mistaken.”

“What about Arthur?” Lancelot brow furrowed and his face shuttered. “I thought...”

“It's been three years.” Three years Gwen had borne the burden of, postponing life, watching it go by with the seasons, the golds of autumn, the emeralds of summer, the greys of winter. “Arthur isn't coming back from the war.” And whatever promise he'd made he mustn't have cared for or he'd have returned. “He just isn't.”

“Miss Smith--” Lancelot's voice filled with understanding. “That is immaterial. Unless you're certain...”

“I am.” Gwen held her chin up. “I truly am.”

“Must I assume you would like me to propose then?” Lancelot's asked, joy changing his features, widening both his eyes and his smile. 

“Yes.” She pressed a hand on her heart, trying to contain its hurried rhythm. “Yes. I don't want to wait anymore.”

Lancelot went on one knee and took her free hand. “In which case.” He cleared his throat. “Dearest Miss Smith-- dearest Guinevere, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

She pulled him up, studied his face. His gaze was earnest and tinged with love. His mouth was firm, no hesitance to it. But his muscles were drawn tight, as if he feared the answer. Oh what had she done to him. Gwen smiled, cupped his face. It was a dear one, the face of the man that had stood by her through thick and thin in the past few years, the face of a man who'd made himself a true, honest companion. Pushing off her toes, she kissed his lips. With their relationship so new, she didn't dare do anything more than press hers against his, but it was a beginning, one that made her heart lift and contract for the first time in a long time.

“I'd waited to tell you because I couldn't be sure until I'd checked the numbers, which I couldn't do till this past Friday,” he said, holding both her hands in his. “But I talked to my lawyers and to those of my friends that are most knowledgeable about the business and the gist of it is that my shares in the Carnglaze salt mine have increased in value. I'm a man of property now.”

“This is such good news.” Lancelot deserved success. He wasn't an ambitious man, for sure, but he was a good one, who surely had more right to worldly glory that all those chancers who reaped the benefits of a dissipated conduct and yet managed to live like gentlemen, no blame attached. “I'm so glad for you!”

“This isn't just for me,” Lancelot said, warmth seeping from his tone. “It's for you as well, for everything I have shall be yours too, my dearest Gwen.”

“I hardly deserve that.” She didn't think she'd brought him all the joy she should and could have. “These are the fruits of your labour.”

“Which I wouldn't be happy without sharing with you.” He smiled sweetly, contemplatively. “We can have a summer wedding now, give a big and solemn reception, and have an engagement party worthy of its name, with our friends and family present. Nay, what am I saying? All the villagers from the surrounding hamlets should be invited.”

“Yes.” She felt the warmth of his palms as they cupped her hands and and was buoyed by it. “Yes.” She could pictures the joys he was describing and wanted them all. “But we've got to tell our families first.”

Hand in hand they walked back towards the house, birds singing in the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trevena is just another name for Tintagel, Cornwall.


	2. The Return

The crew winched down the sails and lengths of canvas sank down the masts. Its chain rattling, the anchor splashed into water, bubbles rising to the surface. So the bow cleared the quay, the ship luffed up, turning into the wind with a ponderous lurking motion, her hulk creaking. Eventually they put the gangway out, affixing handrails to it to allow the passengers to disembark.

Before he did so himself, Arthur paused. He tightened his grip around the rail, closed his eyes, and tipped his head back. The air smelt like salt, the kind that stuck to your hair and skin, and like seaweed washed up on shore. It was a very distinctive smell, one that Arthur could pick out among a thousand, not just the tang of the sea, that taste of the ocean you could catch a whiff of anywhere. Because that one Arthur had known in many places, encountered even as far out as America. This was a qualitatively different smell, at once more piercing and more pervasive. It was like having home on his tongue and in his nostrils.

He let it fill his lungs. He let it bring back memories, pleasant and unpleasant, distant and more recent, the displeased arch of his father's eyebrow and the encouraging smiles Guinevere gave him. Wheat fields being ploughed down on endless summer days by hands attuned to ancient rhythms. The beauty of the coastline leading up to his home at Trevena. 

“I'm sorry, would you?” A man shouldered him forward. “The day isn't getting any younger.”

“I'm sorry,” Arthur said, stepping down the gangway. “I apologise.”

The man who'd pushed him huffed and puffed and mumbled something that might have been an acceptance of Arthur's apology – or a rebuff of it.

Deciding the man's lack of manners wasn't worth picking a fight over, Arthur shrugged, shouldered his sack and walked the length of the quay, straying into town. While he had known this place in his youth, he couldn't say he was well acquainted with it, nor was he in a mood to absorb all the changes that the years had brought to it. Instead of delving into its bowels, and putting up at an impersonal inn for the night, he struck out for the open country.

At times the road coasted the cliffs, the emerald of the sea shimmering in the afternoon sunlight like liquid gold. At times it bore inland, cutting across fields bordered by wooden palisades and turf walls coated with moss. Swathes of moor came in between a field and the next, a rocky outcrop and the next, gorse tufts swaying on the wings of a breeze.

At a good pace, Arthur traipsed along it, sweat coating his back and drenching his brow. From time to time he stopped, put his sack down, and breathed, tension draining from his muscles.

During those pauses he wished he had Hengroen with him, his flanks responding to every nudge of Arthur's knee, his hooves falling into the rhythm of a steady gallop. He told himself that he'd see Hengroen soon. He would groom and pet him and take him out for a walk and maybe the animal would recognise him and they'd fall back into their old groove. Likewise, he'd see his father too, though he hoped in this case that, rather than resorting to habit, they'd explore new ways for their relationship to take. Surely time and distance had worked their charm, surely now that Arthur was older, they could come at it from a different angle. With this thought in mind, he heaved his sack back up and slogged homewards.

Before the sun went down further, he took a detour. A dusty track sloped downwards towards the beach. Raising russet dust, Arthur skittered and slipped down it, until he felt sand under his boots. He dropped his sack and plodded towards the shoreline, the wind tugging at his clothes and brushing his hair into his face. It wasn't a brisk gale but a hefty playful breeze that came from the south.

Arthur breathed it in, then took off his coat and waistcoat, his shirt and breeches. With the sun working warmth in his body, he stood naked on the beach. Eyes closed, he put his arms out, tipped his head back and dug his feet in the coarse sand until it wedged itself between his toes and stuck to his soles.

He stood there until his lungs were full with the tang of the sea and listened to the wind whistle among the gorse bushes that sprung up at the base of the cliff, to the waves pounding the shoreline. With the sun warming his body like new vellum, he walked on a strip of seaweed strewn foreshore, watching the waves crest and wane. Raising spray, he rushed into the water. 

It was cool, perhaps even cold, a shock to the system. It braced his senses and sent his blood rushing faster. Eyes slitted against the sting of it, he dove under, then with a flick of his back, he broke the surface, striking out towards the headland.

His arms taking the stroke and kicking from the hips, he moved against the current. He swam with long regular sweeps of his limbs, his head under, all sound muffled. His breath coming fast, he reached the outermost shoal, and clung to rocks washed smooth by the sea. Sun rays leaned against his nape, drying up the water droplets that kissed his skin, the tide lapping at his body with the cool of the depths. He let himself be cradled by the currents, treading water idly, until his breathing has slowed to a quiet pattern, then swam back.

He dried himself with his clothes, put them back on and, picking up his sack, made for the road again. 

Pink was already lacing the sky, when he passed the boundary of his father's property, and a dusting of velvet blue was painting the horizon-line when he made out the distinct shape of his old family home, with its stone façade and sash windows.

He knocked with his fist, twice and then twice more, calling out words that he hadn't prepared, that he wouldn't have said if he had. “Father, I'm back!” Nobody came to get the door so Arthur thumped his fist against it. “Father, I've returned!”

At last a light went up behind a window and floorboards creaked. 

Gaius stood facing him, looking worn and far more grey than Arthur'd left him, surprise on his face like a slap. “Arthur, my boy. You're home.”

Arthur held his arms away from his body, shrugged. “I should have written ahead, but I was in hospital, and couldn't quite.” 

Gaius' brow furrowed as he scanned Arthur's body for signs of injury. “Hospital?”

“Yes, a minor incident at Saintes.” Arthur shifted his weight, awaking a twinge of that pain that sometimes came on the heels of an abrupt move. “I won't make a good soldier anymore, but I'm fine now.”

“Thank God,” Gaius said, pulling him inside. “I'll have Alice make you something for dinner.”

Gaius attempted to take Arthur's sack away from him, but Arthur made a point of shouldering it. Looking up at the stairs he said, “Where's father? Has he already gone to bed?”

Gaius shuffled, sighed. “Arthur, my boy, I'm so sorry.”

“Sorry about what?” Arthur asked the question though he was sure he knew the answer already. This foreknowledge settled in his gut and twisted it in knots. A cold veil wrapped his body in its coils, limb from limb, distancing him from the warmth of the house, of the night. “Speak, Gaius. Please, speak.”

“I'm afraid Uther passed away two months ago,” Gaius said, with his eyes down. “He was already doing poorly, had been for a while, and then he got some bad news regarding the property and it was the last straw.” 

“How?” Arthur knew Gaius was trying to do him a kindness, giving him time to take it all, but he wanted to know everything about his father's passing, the circumstances of it, the details. “How did he...”

“It happened just after he'd seen his steward.” Gaius seemed to sink into the memory, eyes lost. “He went upstairs and had a stroke.”

“Did he...” Arthur's legs went from under him, so he sat on the lowest tread of the staircase and clutched the banister. “Did he ask for me? Did he...” He moistened his lips. “Did he suffer much?”

“I'm sure he didn't,” Gaius said. “He did linger, but he was never alone.”

“Did he...” The words stopped in his throat but Arthur forced them out. “Did he ask for me?” 

“We went so long without news of you, he must have assumed.” Gaius' voice went down with each word. “He didn't speak much after he was taken ill. But he was never alone, of that I can assure you. Alice and I were always at his bedside.”

Arthur nodded though he wasn't sure he was parsing anything that was being said to him. Two months. Those words echoed in his brain again and again. If he'd healed faster, if he'd taken ship for Europe sooner, he would have been able to say goodbye. 

“But before he was taken ill that last week...” Gaius took a step or two towards him and wrung his hands. “He did speak of you...”

Arthur could guess what his father had said, blamed him for his choices, his stance on everything, from politics to religion, thinking Arthur was better off gone.

“He said he hoped you'd done the Pendragon name justice,” Gaius said. “He was sure you had. He used to say, 'The boy has it in his blood, Gaius'.” Gaius put his hand on Arthur's shoulder. “He said going would be easy knowing that you had done so before him.”

Arthur bobbed his head in recognition of Gaius' words. The ice in his heart was firmly in place, shards of it slicing inwards and giving him pain. He couldn't bear it and he couldn't let Gaius see how he was coping with the keenness of it. “I've got to go,” he said, vaulting off the steps, wrenching the door open and walking into the cool of the evening.

He went round and round the property, marching past the stable and the barn, coasting the fields. Absently he noticed the state of disrepair and abandon they all were in – the fallow meadows, the rusty utensils, the barn door gone – but none of these really drew his attention. The gaping sense of loss did; the groundlessness. The alien nature of the world around him, the changes in the estate, only cut him more adrift from himself, but his father's absence tore at him in ways that shook him deeper.

Biting back a groan that tasted like pain, he kicked at the cracked bones of a broken, rusty plough. He stomped around until his soles were thick with mud and his calves hurt. Shoulders hunched, one arm around his middle, he sat on the rim of the well. He pinched at the bridge of his nose and hung his head. He sobbed, once, twice. It was easy then, far more than he had imagined. He cried. He didn't want to, however, and wiped at the tears as soon as they wet his eyelashes. In spite of that more than a few of them came. He breathed deep, tried to steady himself, batted his gritty and swollen eyes dry.

His father wouldn't approve of Arthur shedding tears, not even for him. He would tell Arthur off for this. Heart heavy, Arthur smiled at the thought. How ironic it was. Many wanted to be mourned. Uther Pendragon had wanted to be respected. He wished there was someone who'd get the joke, who'd understand. Perhaps Gaius would. He'd served his father so long. But then again perhaps not. Gaius worked the man, wasn't related to him.

With a last shudder, Arthur heaved himself to his feet. 

Night was encroaching. Downhill lights were burning behind drawn cottage windows, hearth fires casting a glow over open doorways and back orchards. Arthur walked back towards the house, veering leftwards at the last moment and making for the stable.

Moonlight trickled in swathes that cut across the straw strewn on the floor, defied the shadows that smudged nooks and crannies. All of the stalls were empty but for the one Hengroen occupied. 

Arthur walked over to him. He said, “Hello, old friend. We at least meet again.”

Hengroen snorted in recognition, flicked his ears, and rested his muzzle on Arthur's shoulder.

Hengroen's warm breath washing on his neck, Arthur patted the animal. “I'm sorry you had such a long wait of it.”

The horse whinnied softly.

Sleeves rolled up, Arthur washed and brushed Hengroen, saddled him. 

Though night had fallen by now, moonlight was washing the countryside bright. Even if this hadn't been the case Arthur would have known each road and by lane like the back of his hand anyway.

Lancelot's cottage was perhaps half the size of Arthur's but the fields around it had been sown, the furrows neat, the earth freshly turned. The house itself was in much better repair. The windows had new glazing, the porch was well swept, and walls of ivy grew along the front of its façade. A new building, probably stables, rose to its side, occupying what had once been barren land.

A footman appeared at Arthur's first knock.

If the improvements on the property hadn't alerted him to it, the presence of a footman told Arthur Lancelot had been doing well for himself during the three years of Arthur's absence. “I was hoping Mr du Lac would be in,” Arthur said. “I'm an old friend of his, Arthur Pendragon.”

The footman looked him up and down, then said, “I'm afraid Mr du Lac is hosting a reception.”

“A reception?” Unmistakeably, the sound of laughter washed over from the dining room. “Oh.”

“Indeed, sir.” The footman inclined his head. “But I will tell the master you called.”

Before Arthur could quite turn around, Lancelot appeared in the hall. “Oh my God, Arthur, it's you.”

Arthur smiled a smile he knew to be a little weak. “Yes, I'm back at last.”

Lancelot came over, bypassing the footman, embraced him, clapping his hand on Arthur's shoulder. “I'm so glad, old friend. We'd all thought the worst at one time.”

“I wrote,” Arthur said, a little stiff in Lancelot's embrace. He was sure that if he returned it properly, he would unspool at the seams. “Once, from Yorktown.“

“That was two years ago.”

Arthur could have said that he'd had a hard time of it, that communications were bad, especially with a war on and ships being sunk, but he knew that changed nothing. “I'm sorry. I tried, I--”

“You mustn't blame yourself.” Lancelot stepped back from the embrace. “We're all aware of what war's like.”

Arthur wondered whether that was true, whether the conflict had hardened him past recognition and put him beyond the pale of his friends' regard. “I should have tried and written more often.” He flicked his gaze downwards. “My father...”

“I'm so sorry for your loss, Arthur,” Lancelot said, his eyes full of understanding. “Truly.”

Arthur didn't doubt that for a moment. Even if he hadn't read true contrition in Lancelot's eyes, he would have known his feelings to be true. Lancelot always felt for others, shouldered their burdens and offered what comfort he could.

“But won't you came inside, old friend?” Lancelot said, sweeping a hand about. 

“You have guests.” Voices from inside carried on the air; crockery jangled as it was being moved, one of Lancelot's guests even wondered loudly as to the identity of the person interrupting the party. “I shouldn't.”

Lancelot wrapped his hand around his forearm. “I won't let you get back home without having put some food and drink into you.”

Arthur debated going, but the house was warm, hospitable, and mirth hung on the air. Besides, he wanted to talk to Lancelot – about his father, and Guinevere, – and while he couldn't broach these subjects now with all his guests present, he could perhaps later, once they had gone. He and Lancelot could have a night of it in front of a sturdy glass of port. “Why not.”

Three tables had been pushed together to make up a long one. Around it sat Lancelot's guests. The seat at the head was empty and clearly belonging to Lancelot. To his right sat Guinevere, little changed, though a new kind of maturity played about her face, there in her eyes and the new tightness on her brow. In spite of it however, because of it perhaps, she looked ravishing. A fully developed beauty. The way she dressed only stressed this. She was wearing a new frock of bright mustard silk, with delicate lace coming down in ruffles at the elbows and cleavage. Her hair was gathered in a knot behind her head and came down in tight ringlets that rested on her shoulders. 

When Guinevere saw Arthur, she momentarily gaped and took her brother's hand. She regained her composure as soon as she had lost it, and gently inclined her head.

“Guinevere,” Arthur said, bowing.

“Arthur.”

“Arthur Pendragon!” Reverend Sagramore said, clapping his hand on the table. “A pleasure to see you back, lad. A pleasure.”

“Reverend.”

“Indeed, your return is such welcome news,” Andrew Lamorak said, standing up with a full glass in hand, “that I feel we should raise a toast.”

“Weren't we already toasting the happy couple?” Odin Rosewarne said with an upward flick of his brow. “I thought we were?”

“We were,” Vivian Corney, now clearly grown into womanhood and no longer the flirty girl Arthur remembered, said. “We so clearly were.”

Arthur was about to toast Miss Corney's incipient nuptials, when Andrew Lamorak said, “Well, we'll have a double toast then. To Arthur Pendragon's return.” He hoisted his glass in Arthur's direction. “And to Lancelot and Miss Smith, may they enjoy many happy years together.”

Arthur, who had picked up a glass for the toast, put it back down. “Guinevere?” he said, his voice rough with an emotion he'd give the world to be able not to show.

Guinevere looked around, smiled faintly at all of the guests, then raised her eyes to Arthur. “Yes, it's the truth, Arthur.” She dropped her gaze. “Lancelot and I are getting married.”

“Arthur,” Lancelot said, taking a step in his direction, a placating hand out, his voice even.

Arthur's ears rang; sweat broke on his brow. He was aware of having all eyes on him now. It was no secret. Before leaving for the war, he had courted Guinevere. Before all these people's eyes he's paid her marked attention, singled her out. In spite of his father's opposition, he had walked her to and from church, visited her on the pretence of making friends with her brother, danced with her at every ball and country dance that was ever held. 

He'd never thought of any other woman. Once he'd shaken free of the lust of adolescence, he'd set his sights on Guinevere Smith as the one pure and beautiful thing worth pursuing. He'd pursed her with intent and made her a part of his plans for the future. And this everyone was aware of.

Right now, however, he wasn't worried about the laughter this snub would inspire, about the gossip this would give rise to. Murmurs were already rising and he couldn't care less. It was all so inconsequential. He was thinking of how his promise to Guinevere had kept him alive, of the weight of her ring that was always in his pocket, of the warmth of her hand in his when they'd exchanged their vows on that windswept cliff close to Penwith. Of the loss of a dear friend. Her wisdom, her kindness. 

He mourned the demise of the one hope he'd still had harboured after years spent at war, labouring towards a goal he wasn't sure he understood anymore.

His lips tightened; his hand locked around the stem of the glass. He wanted to lash out, punch Lancelot in the face and say something cutting to Guinevere. Tell him he was no friend. Tell her she'd never meant much to him. But neither was true. In this very moment, Lancelot was looking at him with such earnest understanding in his eyes, such keen concern, Arthur couldn't doubt his honesty. He certainly couldn't punch him. As for Guinevere, her loss was like a knife in the gut. 

He knew her worth. Her beauty shone true even in such a moment as this. Her worry for him radiated from her countenance in steady waves he could wrap himself in. No, losing her was no trifle. 

With a toss of the head, he raised his glass and drank from it. “To the happy couple.”

The whispers died down.

Lancelot's shoulders sagged.

Guinevere stole him a furtive glance, one Arthur couldn't tell the meaning of.

Either way Arthur wouldn't make a scene. Shoulders out, he took a seat between Vivian Corney and Reverend Sagramore. The Reverend talked divinity. Miss Corney fanned her eyelashes at him and brushed her sleeve against his arm each time Arthur shifted in his seat or reached for something, wine, water, a serviette. He would have brushed her off, but her smile was quite sweet, and she wasn't the one responsible for his mood.

He was. Like a naive child, he'd lived stuck in the past and refused to acknowledge the present. 

Like the other guests, he partook of the food that had been prepared for the feast and like them he took part in the ongoing conversation. At first it stayed neutral, encompassing county matters and rural news. The price of wheat was discussed. The welfare of the mines touched upon. Grain rot became a topic of conversation for the better part of a slow half hour. Then somehow the general talk shifted and Arthur became the centre of it.

Miss Corney asked him about his time in the army, about the war. Her father told her off for it, deeming the topic unfit for a young lady's ears, but many others wanted to know too, so Miss Corney's conversational gambit became the main point of debate. 

Arthur didn't say what he thought, didn't share any of his memories. He didn't think these people would have understood, not without having shared the same experience, so he only talked about things anyone could have read in the papers, the voyage over, the political leaders, the generals.

Before midnight chimed, most guests called for their carriages. Their wheels rattled; hooves clapped on gravel. Arthur stood and took his leave of his host. Lancelot shook his hand, searched his eyes, said, “I hope you'll come round again soon.”

Arthur tipped his head to the side in short assent.

He was already halfway across the parlour, when Guinevere leant over the banister. “Arthur, please, we have to talk.”

His body like lead, his heart missing a beat, Arthur turned around. For a moment, he experienced the urge to rush up and take her in his arms, to tell her, 'Come with me. Break it off with Lancelot and be my wife'. He saw himself do it. He saw himself chase up the stairs and swipe her in his arms. But that other him wasn't the one who felt loneliness bloom in his heart like a trusty friend; he wasn't the one whose tongue tasted bitter with acknowledgement of her loss. “What about, Miss Smith?”

Guinevere gasped. “Arthur, Mr Pendragon, I--”

Arthur looked away. “It's late, Miss Smith. And I've just returned from a long voyage.”

Guinevere bowed her had, the landing floorboard creaking as she shifted her weight. “I understand. I... It was thoughtless of me, believing you'd want to talk.”

It was certainly naive, Arthur thought. He didn't say it. He'd taken enough of a swipe at her just now and she most certainly didn't deserve it. “Good night, Miss Smith.”

“Good night, Arthur.”

When Arthur stepped onto the lawn, it was to find that clouds had obscured the moon.


	3. Stitches

Gwen plunged the needle through the fabric. When it came out on the other side, she caught the thread and pulled the needle thorough its loop. Holding the yarn down with her thumb, she went at it again, putting in a new stitch. This one completed the rose design she had been aiming towards. Two yellow blooms spread out next to each other, the third missing from the pattern. Even with the missing element, she could still see how the finished product would look when she was done. A three-flower motif and centred by a frame of tangled leaves would unfold. It would be a simple pattern, but not a plain one. It would remind her of spring even when spring was long gone and she and Lancelot were snowed under in their new home. 

The door opened and Elyan came in, back from doing some farm work, his brow covered in sweat, his sleeves rolled up. He dabbed at his forehead, took a book from the middle shelf in the bookcase and sprawled on a chair. Before opening the volume, Elyan said, “Preparing your trousseau?”

“Yes,” Gwen said, taking a diagonal stitch, then wrapping the thread over the edge. “Yes, I am.”

“What are you at this time?” Elyan flipped the book open to its first page and picked up an apple from the bowl sitting on the table next to him. “Handkerchief or doily?”

“Doily.” She looked up and smiled at her brother “I thought you didn't like them.”

“I don't see their use.” He gave his apple a bite and turned the page. After a while his brow creased and he said, “Gwen, with all the work on the farm, I've failed to ask, but are you content?”

Gwen pressed her lips together and put her stitching down. “What do you mean?”

“Arthur's return.” He hitched an eyebrow. “It was quite a surprise after all and... it could change things. It does change things.”

Gwen licked her lips before poking the needle next to where the thread had last come up. Her hands trembled, so the stitch wasn't of the most even, but it would still do. “His return was a surprise,” she said. It had, in fact, been a complete shock to the heart. “Of course I'm glad he's well.” Her fondest wish, after all, had been for his safety. “But it was still...”

Elyan looked at her from over over the rim of his book. “What?”

“Draining,” she said with a sigh. “His return reminded me of the past.”

Elyan closed his book. “And do you wish that past back?”

From the moment Arthur had set foot back home, Gwen had asked herself that question, of course. She owed it to every one and herself first. From the moment she and Arthur had exchanged tokens that day on the cliff, she'd believed herself pledged to him. And there was a case to be made for that first vow. It had come from the heart and it had been honest. Theoretically, it should cancel out the second. And certainly, when she'd seen him again at her engagement party, she'd felt like she had travelled back in time to a past that had been sweet and dream-like. She had wondered then what it would be like to be his wife, to belong to him, to be made love to by him. Arthur was a fine gentleman. More so now than he'd left, less of a boy and more of a man. But a man who had the same pride in his bearing as the Arthur she had known, the same strength in his features. Yet the three years that had come between hadn't been a fantasy. She had grown apart from Arthur in that time, become a different woman, and got close Lancelot. “ Lancelot loves me and I love him.”

“Gwen.” Elyan made wide eyes at her. “I only want you to be happy and this situation...” He shook his head. “It would confuse anyone. Your old love seemingly back from the dead, your hand pledged to another after years of waiting. There is enough, my dear sister, to bewilder the steadiest person.”

“It might be a little bewildering, but my feelings leave me little choice.” She finished a row, taking a tiny stitch over the last one. “I couldn't bear to give up Lancelot. He's such a good man.” She felt unable to number all the ways in which he was they were so many: his kindness, his compassion, his gentleness. “He's such an honest soul.” She tipped her head to the side. “I love him for all that he is.”

Elyan leant forwards, elbows on knees, hands clasped together. “I do not doubt your feelings for Lancelot.”

“Nor should you.” 

“But if you want to postpone the wedding or cancel it--” Elyan breathed deep. “We'll weather the gossip. Besides, we're not so poor that you should rush to make an alliance. I'd be happy to have you with me a while longer.”

Gwen smiled with love at her brother. “I know that.” She studied the entwined roses she had stitched, the pure beauty of them, saw them the way she would see them in future, a daily sight at her household, the colours a little faded but still true. “But I want to get married. My future lies with Lancelot.”


	4. Sunlight on Cloth

Leon Knightley put down his spectacles and folded up the papers he'd spread across the desk. “The short of it is that the estate's yield has decreased by 80%, you haven't had a good crop in years, and most of the property needs refurbishment, which will cost you money you don't have,”

“I see.” Arthur glanced at the maps and reports, bank accounts and receipts. “So what do you suggest I do?”

“You could raise a loan using the property as surety,” Leon told him, scratching at the side of his nose as he spoke. “But to be quite honest, and believe me it's be easier not to be so blunt, it's not really worth the effort.”

“That's what you told my father.” Arthur raised his eyes from the paperwork to Leon.

Leon kneaded his nape. “Yes, it is. He didn't take it well. I understand why. This is where he was happy, with your mother. He had an attachment to the place.”

The Trevena house had been in his family for generations, so Arthur could see why his father viewed it as such an integral part of his identity. “He did.”

“But times have changed, Arthur,” Leon said. “And you – all of us – ought to change with them.”

“So your solution is to give up on Trevena?”

“Cut your losses.” Leon lifted his shoulders. “Sell the place, the old disused mine, and buy a smaller farm on better land.”

Leon's proposition made sense. It was the rational thing to do. But Arthur had grown up here. He'd learnt his letters in this very study, his father doing business at his desk, Arthur sprawled on the carpet by the fire, tracing words on the page. As an older boy on leave from school, he'd roamed the district, learning the geography of it by heart, every combe and cavern, every crag and moor patch. He'd told his father he'd go to war in the room above the one he was in, on a cold winter day, snow packed on window frames and strewn in mounds all over the driveway, the chamber a world apart from the rest. “I can't sell. I don't want to sell.”

“I understand you're sentimental about this place.” Leon swept an open hand past his ear. “But have you any clear conception of what it would take to make it profitable again?”

“I think so.” Arthur may have never needed to look after the estate before, but he had been raised to take over one day. “Yes.”

“Because you'll have to buy new farming implements, clean up those fields that have run wild, plough the land,” Leon said, arching an eyebrow. “And you know Gaius and Alice won't be able to help with any of that. They're too old for farm-work.”

“I can do most of it.” Arthur had weathered a three-year campaign. He could do this. “I'll hire a farmhand to help.”

“Skilled farm hands cost.” Leon shook his head. “And you have precious few savings.”

“I'll get unskilled labour then.” God knew there were plenty of labourers seeking occupation. Most would accept a low salary to keep afloat. The workhouse was a place nobody wanted to end up in. “It won't be too hard a feat.”

“Arthur, don't be stubborn,” Leon said. “You can easily move somewhere else. With your family name, I'm sure you'll be able to get a loan that will allow you to.”

Arthur rose, picked up his coat, and put in on. “No. I won't sell Trevena.”

“Arthur, this is unreasonable, it's--” Leon looked him up and down. “Where are you going?”

“I am--” Arthur said, sweeping his hat off a pile of books and fitting it on his head. “--going to a wedding.”

 

∼∼∼∼∼∼

 

The church was small in the way of country churches. It had a bell tower and a tall slender steeple. Inside the ceiling soared into dark wooden rafters, with old golden lamps hanging down on chains. The walls were stone, the pews wooden. They faced a narrow strip of balcony, opposite which a stained-glass window opened, blazing in the afternoon sunlight, lighting up the altar cloth in swathes of cream and honey. 

Before the altar Guinevere and Lancelot stood. She had flowers in her hair; yellow, pink and white buds arranged like a crown on her head. Her robe was brocade, bodice and skirt cut in one. It was wide at the hips, the folds of its over-skirt looped in the back, the latest fashion, clearly an item a considerable amount of her savings had gone towards. She was looking at Lancelot – he too in his Sunday best – and smiling wide at him, her hands in his.

Without making any noise, Arthur slipped into one of the back pews. 

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God,” Reverend Sagramore said, “and in the face of this congregation--” He spared a glance for the people crowding the pews, Lancelot's friends and Guinevere's family, villagers from all over the county come to see the couple wed. “--to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony.” 

Guinevere smiled at the mention, tipped her head further back, in pride or in preparation for the vital moment. Lancelot rolled his shoulders, stepping a little closer to Guinevere. 

Reverend Sagramore went on explaining what marriage was, comparing the union of men and woman to that of Christ and his church. He warned against taking the institution lightly, against carnal lusts. 

Arthur considered that. He would have thought carnal lust was indeed an important part of matrimony. It would certainly be for him, were he the man standing there, waiting to get married. Sex was something he wanted; something he had sometimes been compelled to go without. Because of propriety, because of life circumstances. Perhaps not when he was so young as to be green, because then he'd brazenly asked for it, but later. Since before the war he'd considered himself beholden to Guinevere and had been happy to wait, because he'd wanted love, respect and friendship to be part of their union. Even during the war, when he was cut adrift from his promises and temptation seemed easy, he'd held back. Even so he'd wanted. On cold nights with more stars burning bright in the sky than he'd known how to count, a bivouac fire crackling before him, the warmth of other bodies close, the smell of them, Arthur had had that need. The bonds he'd forged on the battlefield had made him desire; made him wish for sex and orgasm, a body to cover his with its warmth and its musk. With gritted teeth, he'd staved that off. Refrained from breaking his promise. 

He supposed, however, that all that wouldn't be something a man of the cloth would admit to during such a solemn rite.

Spectacles slipping down his nose as he read on, Sagramore continued with his recital.

Lancelot and Guinevere exchanged a look at this. It was full of warmth, expressive of a mutual language Arthur couldn't sift through.

“Thirdly, It was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity.” Sagramore looked at Lancelot and Guinevere from over the rim of his spectacle. “To which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined.”

Arthur's attention drifted. He focused on the patches of light pooling at the bride and bridegroom's feet, on their shifting patterns and at the encroaching shadows that lapped at them with dark hands. He noticed the candles guttering in the breeze that swept in from the open door and the petals strewn on the floor. The were red and lilac, white and orange.

He only made sense of what was being said, when the Reverend spoke again. “If any person knows of any impediment why these two should not be joined in wedlock, they are bound to declare it.”

Arthur considered standing up and saying, 'I do. This woman was promised to me first'. Though the urge burnt at his fingertips he made himself stop. What would that achieve anyway? He would have force Guinevere's hand, who had chosen to be with Lancelot of her own free will. And he would lose Lancelot's friendship. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but in the long run. He couldn't do that to them. He didn't wish he could. He didn't want to be that man. He felt shame for that man, for that instinct. 

So he listened to the silence that enveloped the church; saw the the dipped heads of Lancelot and Guinevere, took in the tension in their shoulders.

ews creaked as their occupants shifted about in the hopes of sneaking a glance at Arthur. Some were more circumspect about it and they moved on the pretence of dabbing at their noses or stretching their backs. Others were less so, meeting Arthur's gaze, scrutinising him openly.

Arthur stood, taking in the altar and the couple in front of it, the flood of light enveloping them.

The hush became profound. 

Lips pursed as if he was about to read out his cues, but with none of them forthcoming, Reverend Sagramore didn't intone any words.

Arthur pivoted on his heels and strode towards the door. 

Reverend Sagramore said, “Wilt thou, Lancelot du Lac, have this Woman to thy wedded Wife?”


	5. The Fair

They had a fair in Camelford. Stalls were out, mounted on raised wooden platforms covered with straw. They were shored against the gutters that ran parallel to the street, with just enough space between them to allow a handful of people to pass. Some had awnings and some had not. Some sold fruit and vegetables, red round apples and shapely pears piled up in even mounds on removable trestles; round cabbages at their ripest and bulbous turnips with their head dusted with earth rubbed shouders. Some stands sold flowers: daffodils and marigolds, roses in bunches with dew beading their petals. Others gave away textiles for affordable prices, patterned shawls with fringes that brushed the floors, scarves that glimmered in the sunlight, and light cotton dresses suitable for the summer. Choice stands displayed a better variety of merchandise, barrels of salted fish, oysters, and spices from distant ports.

The market square was loud with the shouts of the stallholders, with the trampling of many feet, with the creaking of wheels on cobblestones, handcarts weaving their way through those by-lanes that were free of stalls. 

Women carried baskets over their arms, gentlemen their sticks. Children ran amok, urchins mostly. They dashed by hatless and often barefoot. 

The air was rife with the smell of humanity, of foreign perfumes, and animals. Dogs ran in the wind, barking loudly; carts carrying cows, sheep, pigs, chickens and geese were set in a sprawling queue, ready to unload and pen up the animals to be auctioned off. 

Arthur ignored most of these. He couldn't afford a new horse. They were expensive and Hengoren and the nag he had at home would do fine for the foreseeable future. He bought a new pair of oxen instead. They were fat, healthy animals, powerfully muscled, with wide flanks and tall horns. Though they cost an arm and a leg, they would be a great help on the farm. 

He had Gaius drive them back home while he browsed the stalls for the other items he needed. As he walked, he weighed the money in his pocket. There were a few heavy coins, a handful of lighter ones. All in all it wasn't much, the last of his pay. He sighed. 

He bought a plough, one that had an iron coulter and was lighter by far than the rusty ones at home, a solid thing that would allow for a team of one man and two oxen. He also got a rake and a new set of spades. He didn't get them at a bargain price, but the amount of money he counted out – coins poured onto a roughened palm – was at least reasonable. “You'll have it all delivered tomorrow, sir.”

When he was done with his purchases, Arthur wandered the rest of the stalls. He saw tradesmen haggling with their customers, their clothes homespun and ragged, kerchiefs around their necks, their trousers coming with frayed ends and holes in places. The customers themselves were in no better gear, aprons stained and yellowed, petticoats drenched in mud two inches in.

He passed an iron monger's stall. Hooks hung from bars; locks and hinges sprawled across the counters, keys lying in single file one next to the other. He walked past an apothecary's stall. Rows of bottle of different sizes sat on temporary shelving. Plates full of grainy powders of varied colours lined the trestles. A woman stood by just such a one, applying a thick white pomade to the bald skull of a weathered man. “Tomorrow you'll have a full head of hair, you'll see.”

Arthur looked away, a sour twist to his mouth. 

In exchange for a pint of cider, he delivered a ha' penny into the hands of a withered crone with more calluses on her palms than a mine worker. He sampled it in the shadows of a tent, watching a mummery show, two lads dressed in old time garb battling each other with stumpy wooden swords, belting out overblown threats and calling each other 'sir knight.' They had painted shields, and surcoats with devices on it, a lion rampart, a lily of the valley. The stitches were rough but the outfits weren't too ill done.

Sword met sword in a romp of a dance that was athletic enough to get people to clap.

Arthur was sipping at his cider when somebody crashed into him. Liquid stained the front of Arthur's shirt, sticky and sweet-smelling, gluing the fabric to his skin. A curse on his tongue, he turned round but the person who'd careened into him was already speeding away, shouldering his way forward, calling out, “Sorry, sorry.”

A gang of lads in rags chased him, calling out, “Give it to us or we'll be teaching 'ee a lesson.”

“I won't,” the boy who'd pushed Arthur shouted. He kept running, until he came to a dead end, a wall on one side and the oncoming gang on the other. “I worked hard for it. I won't give it up to the likes of ye.”

It was then that Arthur saw the boy had something in his hand, something he clutched to his chest. 

“Last warnin',” said the leader of the gang. “Or we'll whip 'ee.”

“I'm not afeared.” The boy shook his scrawny shoulders out, a shoulder bared in the effort, the shirt he was wearing hanging from his frame like a rag. “You'll have to come and get it.”

The gang members advanced on the boy. The leader was the first to throw himself at him, charging down at him like a bull. 

The boy pocketed whatever he'd been holding onto, and sidestepped, causing the gang leader to go down with all the force of his own momentum. “Having a rest, are ye?” the boy said, grinning from ear to ear in the face of what were appalling odds.

The four other youngsters were still up for a fight, grumbling threats at him.

The boy put up his fist and widened his legs.

That was invitation enough. Two gang members came at him. The boy ducked a fist aimed for his eye and caught his opponent on the chin with a scrape of his knuckles. His shoulder set too high for it, the boy landed another awkward punch. But it didn't do much to stop his adversaries. Quick on his feet, with a good instinct for avoiding trouble, the boy danced away from a succession of blows and attacks. He feinted, he dove to the side, he skipped this way and that, a sloppy defence up, made of fists clenched with the thumb tucked inside, and an ability to move fast on his feet. 

Because of that and the odds against him, the boy got the crowd cheering for him. Though he couldn't take his eyes off his opponents, the boy was acknowledged the mob's support. He made himself larger. He returned each threat with more bravado and cheek than before, a witty come back for each taunt aimed his way.

But it couldn't last long. The gang leader recovered and came at him from behind, landing a punch in the boy's kidneys. With his defences down, the others went at him too. One jabbed him hard hard in the face, splitting the boy's lip. The other dropped a right hook on the boy's chin.

The boy reeled, dabbed at the blood, straightened. 

The gang members snarled and descended on him again. The boy ducked under the guard of one of his opponents, defended himself with his arms up. They tackled him with a shoulder to the belly, wrestled him to the ground. They kicked him in the sides and in the shins. “Give it to us,” the gang leader said, straddling him, searching his pockets “Give.”

“No.” The boy used his back to shake his attacker off him, knocking the wind out of him. He fought dirty too, pinching the gang leader's nose shut and covering his mouth with his palm, elbowing him hard, biting even. “No, I put three days work in for that and I ain't be giving it to you.”

They punched the boy in the ribs, in the flanks; they hit his head, until the boy curled into a ball, protecting his head, hissing each time one connected. With each blow, they swore. They egged each other on. “Come on, give him some.”

“The almighty be protectin' us,” said someone in the crowd; “they’ll kill the boy.”

“The lad's putting up a fight,” one of the stall holders said. ’He'll be fine yet.”

“Nay, they have him down.”

Arthur had had enough. He put his drink down and stalked towards the scene of the action. 

“Leave him be,” Arthur said, squaring his shoulders, “or I swear to God I'll drag you before the first Justice of the peace I can find.”

It was unlikely and the ruffians knew it. Getting justice for a crime was hard enough in ordinary circumstance and the more so when the victim was a no one like the boy they were going after. But it was enough to get four of the gang members to flee. Their leader wasn't so amenable to persuasion, however. He rushed Arthur.

When the fist came, Arthur sidestepped, intercepted the arm, and twisted it harshly behind the gang leader's back until the arm was so taut it would snap with a little more pressure. “I suggest you scamper or you'll rue it.”

The gang leader whimpered, nodded. When Arthur let him go, he fled into the crowd.

That seen to, Arthur went over to the boy, knelt at his side. “Hey,” he said, “are you all right?”

With his arm trembling under him, the boy pushed himself to a sitting position. His nose was bloody and so was his mouth. There was a scratch on his cheek, high up at cheekbone level, sweeping across the curvature of the sharp bone, and another gash streaked his temple. “I'm fine,” the boy said, his voice raspy, low. He dabbed at his mouth with the back of a dirty hand. “Dirty sons of dogs, that's what they be.”

Arthur laughed. “Well, at least they haven't curbed your tongue.”

The boy grinned at him, pure mischief shining in his eyes. “'T would take more than a beating, sir. I'm used to those.”

Arthur didn't ask, didn't feel like he could. With a crowd gathered round them to gawk, this was neither the time nor the place to. He pulled himself to his feet, offered the boy a hand up. 

The boy eyed it with a hint of distrust and pushed to a stand under his own steam. He was tall, perhaps even taller than Arthur, gangly, more bone than meat to him in the way of famished country boys. Based on his frame, Arthur placed him at sixteen or thereabouts. Old enough to strike out on his own, young enough to make a bad job of it. He certainly needed some food put into him and a few clothes. With his shirt torn to rags, slashed at the arm and neck, he was more naked than clothed, patches of pale skin peeking through, and hardly decent. 

“Come, I'll buy you a drink.” 

Distrust shone in the boy's eyes but then it went away. Though he was still shaking, the boy stood with his legs wide apart. “I need no charity.”

“Mine would be no charity,” Arthur said, taken aback by the boy's spunk. “But a good turn.”

The boy bowed his head, looked up again. He sniffled against the trickle of blood that came down his nose. “All right. But only because I be grateful.”

Arthur threw his head back and laughed. 

There was a pub at the south end of Camelford, a place with a few benches outside and a common room that smelt like rum. 

Arthur sat the boy down at a corner table, away from windows and gawkers. He held a hand up and said, “Wait here.”

When Arthur came back with two tankards of ale, he found the boy right where'd he left him. His shoulders sloped and his back was bent over the table, the notches in his spine sticking out from under his shirt. He radiated discontent, awkwardness, but he hadn't cut and run.

“Here,” Arthur said, sliding one of the tankards over to the boy. “Drink this.”

Without a thank you the boy did, nearly draining the tankard in two hefty gulps. When he was done, he wiped at his mouth with his threadbare sleeve. 

“So,” Arthur asked, taking a more moderate sip. “Who are you and where are you from?”

“Merlin,” the boy said, rolling his Rs with gusto. “Everywhere and nowhere.”

Arthur hid a smile behind the rim of his tankard. “Really, everywhere?””

Merlin shrugged with a nonchalant lift of his shoulders.

“You must have a place.” Everybody did. “A family.”

“I don't.” Merlin's mouth twisted. “And if ye're going to push, I'm going to--”

Arthur put a hand on his wrist, exercising some pressure so Merlin wouldn't be able to lever himself out of his seat. “What did those ruffians want with you?”

Merlin's eyes flashed. “My rightful earnings; that's what they be after!”

“Money then,” It made sense. It was fair day. Those urchins were probably eager to spend their spoils on some trinkets. “What else.” 

Merlin searched his pockets. “This past week I been working old man Simmons' farm. Thatching the roof, plantin' greens, digging ditches.” He placed a half loaf on the table. It was old, hard bread, the crust nearly blackened with too much time in the oven. “And he paid me in nature, so to speak.”

So they were chasing Merlin for a few crumbs of stale bread. He got a beating for a little food the gentry would wrinkle their noses at. Arthur's stomach turned at the notion, the distaste sat heavy on his tongue. “So you're what, a day labourer?”

“Aye.” Merlin winked. “That I be.”

And not a prosperous one either, the state of his clothing and the lean looks of him told the tale. “Wait here,” said Arthur. When he returned, he put a steaming plate of stew in front of Merlin and a fresh tankard of ale. “This is for you.”

Merlin's stomach rumbled loudly, but his mouth thinned and his expression closed off. “No charity.”

“This isn't charity,” Arthur said, though he was conscious it was. “This is an advance payment.”

“On what?” Merlin screwed up his eyebrows. 

“I need some help on my farm.” Though Arthur had envisaged someone older than Merlin when considering who to hire, it was true too. “I'm looking for someone to help me with ploughing and with repairs.”

“I can do all of that.” Merlin said, brightening visibly. “I be a genius with a plough. And strong.”

Merlin looked as if a gale would blow him over, but there was something about him, the light in his eyes that kept burning in spite of the pummelling he'd taken, that told a tale of hardiness. “Deal?”

“Deal.” Merlin took Arthur's hand and shook it. There was strength to his grip, warmth in the folds of his palm. “I'll be your farmhand.”

Merlin didn't try and negotiate his contract or to define the terms of it. He didn't even ask where he was supposed to work. He didn't talk shop at all. He picked up a spoon, bent over his dish and started shovelling portions of stew into his mouth. When the plate was half empty, Merlin looked at his half-loaf consideringly, then at the dwindling contents of his dish. His palm hovered over the bread crust.

“I'll get you some more bread,” Arthur said, before going over to the counter to get a basketful of it.

Merlin thanked him, said he'd do extra hours in return for it, and started dunking pieces of bread into the stew. When they were steeped in sauce, he wolfed them down like an eager pup. Little by little his stomach stopped grumbling so loudly Arthur could hear it.

 

∼∼∼∼∼ 

 

Merlin sat astride Hengroen and Arthur slipped behind him, the reins in his hand. 

They took a moor path that went around villages and scattered settlements. It led past bracken expanses and boulder scatterings towards the deep of the country side, where the wind whipped at beds of heather and at soil gathered in hard clumps. They forded a shallow stream that cut across a green field and came upon patches of enclosed land, divided in strips and cut in pockets. They passed a hamlet made up of four rickety cottages that faced one another, farm animals wandering around outside their pens, leaving hoof prints on the tender earth.

Merlin shivered in Arthur's arms and had good cause to. Though it was a summer day, a breeze had risen and, as it came from the sea, it was both chilly and cutting. The boy had nothing but his shirt and that well past threadbare. Above all he had no body fat to speak of, the span of his hips, as Arthur found by dint of having his arms around it, as narrow as a girl's. The close proximity revealed other aspects of Merlin. The tears in his shirt showed old marks and scars, tiny ridges of skin that had knit badly together, narrower lines that were faintly discoloured. The reins in one hand, Arthur ghosted his free one over the marks. He didn't touch skin by a thread. “Troubled home?” he asked.

“No,” Merlin told him, dipping his head. “My mother was as fine a woman as ever lived.”

“Then how did you get by this?” Arthur said, pressing a thumb on one of the scars.

“It certainly weren't my mother.” 

“Was it your father then?” Some men took to drink, after all, especially after long, hard winters that left the people with little to scrape by. It wasn't right, but it was, alas, common.

“My father left my mother with child and we ne'er saw 'im again. None in the village ever did either.” He paused as Hengroen negotiated a sharp rise. “Maybe he was press ganged, or maybe he fell to his death in a mine. No one's to know.”

As they got closer to Trevena, Hengroen slowed down.

“So how's this place of yours?” Merlin asked, turning in the saddle. “What sort of work do it need?”

“Well, look for yourself,” Arthur said, as the house came into view. “We're here.”

Merlin dismounted with a hop before Arthur ever slowed his mount. “It's full o' windows,” he said, gaping at Arthur's childhood home. “And all solid stone. How many rooms? Ten? More? I bet it be more.”

When Arthur came back from stabling Hengroen, Merlin was still gawping at the house, his nose up in the air.

“You'll have a room of your own, and board,” Arthur said, trying not to get too taken by Merlin's sense of wonderment, his amazement at the every day realities of Arthur's life. It was hard to do because there was something about Merlin, his easy smile, his determined resilience, that made his other qualities arresting. They dug a hole in Arthur's soul and patching up that hole was like trying to put a dam to a river that had already broken past its boundaries. “You'll be up at six and I expect you to work the fields and help with the house.”

Merlin saluted like sailors do. “Aye, sir.”

Arthur smiled but made a point of rolling his eyes.

“And when that's done, you'll tend the animals.” Since hiring Merlin meant he could afford to get no one else to help, Merlin would have to do all the work. With time, if they did well, Arthur could hire a second farm hand. One with more experience. But for now saving was paramount.“Is that understood?”

“I like animals. They be fine creatures.” Merlin gave him a hearty grin. “So where do I sleep?”

“Not so fast.” Arthur considered his new farmhand. While he had an easy attitude that would have opened him a lot of doors, his appearance was not one of his positive traits. The clothes could be remedied. But the dirt and grime that lay beneath them had to go. Merlin's face was, after all, a study in mud and dust, his neck begrimed in thick stripes like soot, and dirt lodged deep under his nails. 

“Follow me,” he said.

Arthur rounded the he house and crossed to the barn where the pump was.

“You need a thorough scrub.” Arthur wasn't particularly keen on getting his house full of lice. “If you want to enter the house, let alone sleep in it, I want you to smell like roses.”

“Um.” Merlin eyed the pump with clear distaste. “I can be sleepin' in the stables.”

Even though it was summer, the stable was cold at night. Merlin was already scrawny enough as it was and sleeping rough would probably put a permanent dent in him. “No buts, Merlin. Unless you want to renege on our contract, you're to wash. So just make this easy and strip.”

Merlin scowled at the pump and pushed his lips together. Arthur was sure he was about to storm off in a high dudgeon, refuse to wash much like he'd refused to eat at the pub when he'd thought Arthur's offer was charity. But then Merlin sighed and in one swift pull rid himself of his shirt.

He had a long pale torso, a streamlined back that tapered at the hips. When he cast off his shoes and trousers, it appeared he had long, coltish legs, with bony knees and some little thigh muscle. Between his legs his cock dangled. It was a few shades darker than his skin, long and lean, but with some definite heft to it. It was a man's cock more than a boy's and that pushed Arthur to reconsider his age. Perhaps he was seventeen or eighteen, after all. Old enough to start a family of his own. Though perhaps he wasn't ready for that responsibility. There was still something of the awkward youngster about Merlin. His feet were big, just as his hands were, clumsy ones with long fingers sitting atop a wide palm. And while these weren't signs of immaturity, Arthur had a hard time imagining Merlin, with his attitude and his cheek, as the head of a clan of little ones. 

Face hot, Arthur looked away and leant over the old contraption to activate the pump. He gave it a few pulls and water started jetting out of it. 

“I wager I'll have to go for it, shan't I?’Merlin said, walking under the jet with a pout on his lips

Eyes on the handle, Arthur pumped it hard until his muscles pulled and he was all a-sweat. Water sluiced fast outwards and washed away some of the grime sticking to Merlin's body, turning it pink in patches. Arthur saw the dirt fall away and reveal pale skin and the first tender traces of the bruises that would cover Merlin's body come the morrow, an unfair reminder of the day's dealings. He quashed the anger that came with that, the feeling that made him wish he'd given the boys who'd beaten Merlin a thorough thrashing. Who did that? For a little bit of bread? It was past Arthur's understanding of human nature. Instead of feeding his anger though, Arthur blanked his mind and sweated at the pump, watching as Merlin squirmed and grimaced as he washed. 

Arthur smiled then, and said, “Scrub well. And don't forget the ears. I'm sure a lot of dirt is lurking behind them.”

“No ear jokes,” Merlin said, scrubbing at his arms and neck. “I been hearing them since I was a lad of five and me ears grew before the rest of me.”

Arthur chuckled and the anger that had knit his muscles tight dissolved.

“Can you work the pump yourself?” Arthur asked. “I need to pop back into the house.”

“Aye, I can.” Merlin turned around, his back, the long sweep of it, on show. “But aim at me shoulders first. Can't get those alone.”

Arthur ducked his head, directed the flow without seeing anything much. When he was done, Merlin turned again. He sidled over, and took the handle from him. Hair wet and mostly in his eyes, he dimpled up. “I can take it from here.”

“Good, Arthur said, wiping his hands on his breeches. “Good.”

He walked into his bedroom and searched the bottom of one of his trunks for his old clothes, hoping neither his father nor Alice had seen fit to get rid of them. While his current ones wouldn't fit Merlin, especially the breeches, his older ones might. He found a pair of sturdy breeches under a pile of old coats. Since any shirt would do, Merlin being rather broad in the shoulders, if all bone, he picked one of his newer ones. He supposed it would still smell of him, but it was clean, and nothing so old Merlin'd be ashamed to wear it. With these items in hand, Arthur hurried back down.

Merlin dried himself on towels from the kitchen, hair first, body later. Arthur's shirt sat well on his shoulders and opened a little at the chest. Arthur's old breeches on the other hand were a bit short in the leg though they were fine at the hips.

“Good as new,” Merlin said, sweeping both hands out to show Arthur his borrowed outfit.

“Right, good.” Arthur held his face in check for smiles. If he was too lax on Merlin, then the boy would go wild on him and never obey an order. “Come with me.”

Arthur ushered a barefoot Merlin inside. He took a lamp from a side table and made for the stairs.

At the same time, Alice waddled out of the kitchen. “Dinner is ready, Arthur.”

“Good, thank you, Alice.” Arthur didn't fail to take in Alice's astounded face at sight of Merlin. “This is, Merlin, our new farmhand.”

Merlin had his hand up in salute and a grin at the ready.

Arthur took the stairs up. “No dawdling, Merlin!”

Merlin said, “Sorry, ma'am,” and dashed after Arthur, making a lot of a clatter for someone barefoot.

“These,” Arthur said, opening the door of a small corner room that had a view over the backyard, “shall be your new quarters.”


	6. Merlin

The room wasn't big. It was more of an in-between space between two other such ones. Even so it was hardly inhospitable. A wooden bed covered with a stitched patchwork quilt was stacked under the window. A braided russet rug lay on the floor. Opposite the bed, and wedged right against the wall, was a tall dusty chest that had been padlocked shut, its lid bulging. A bedside table stood at Merlin's elbow, slim but solid. All in all the room had more furniture and fittings than Merlin had ever seen put together in his life. And the mattress was soft and the bed linens clean. It was the best bed Merlin had ever lain on. It should have certainly facilitated a good night's sleep. But Merlin couldn't catch a wink.

Aches bloomed all across his body. His sides and middle were tender and sore. His ribs hurt with every breath he took, no matter how shallow. Dull pains threaded their way all over him in the strangest and most random of patterns, flourishing between his shoulders, in his neck, and around his kneecaps. Even his fingers were raw. His knuckles most certainly stung with a fiery passion. To top it all off, his face was swollen and warm in patches, under his eyes and across his cheekbones, and laying it on the pillow was torture instead of bliss. 

As a consequence he tossed and turned, flipped on one side and then the other. 

The song of night birds filled the air, wings fluttered and flapped outside the window, and a clock ticked on the landing.

With a long rustling sigh, Merlin tried lying on his back. Given that his muscles were all cramped and stiff, it wasn't any better. 

Still, Merlin didn't see why he couldn't sleep. 

He'd had much worse, after all. Pain that throbbed with a keenness that left you breathless. Skin raw with the patterns of a good thrashing, burning in fierce lances that licked at your spine like fire. Bones that grated as they settled. The contractions of an empty stomach that turned in on itself. In those days even the smell of food gone bad and emptied into wash tubs had been a temptation. Greasy water, as old Master Kilgey called it, had been a great boon. At times back then Merlin had caught himself daydreaming about bowlfuls of the stuff, a thin broth that curdled at the top in the way of old milk, thick shapeless lump of god knows what sticking to the spoon.

He'd borne all of that in cramped, dark places, with twenty for company, the breathing patterns of his companions going from snores to whistles to death rattles.

He could remember all of that with a clarity that didn't shine on that many of his memories. It all came back with an ease that disturbed him. The hardness of the packed floor, nothing but a thick rug underneath, the knots and holes of it a pattern he could retrace blind on any surface. The sour tang of sweat that climbed into your nostrils, the odour nothing like the ripe smell drenching you after a day sweating in the fields and everything like rot.

Tonight, instead, Merlin had gone to bed on a full stomach. With the master dining in the front parlour, Alice had served him dinner in the kitchen. Her bread had had a golden crust and smelled like nuts. Right in front of his eyes, she had cut it in thick even slices, angling her knife the same way Merlin's mother used to. Merlin's mother, of course, had never made her slices so fat, nor cut them length-wise but rather scraped them off the shorter sides. But the gesture was the same. Even Alice's hands were similar to his mother's, down to having knuckles reddened from cleaning and scraping and bearing all the little burn scars, with the skin grown tan in places, that came from cooking to close to the fire. Merlin had had to blink several times before realising those weren't his mother hands, but, in fact, a near stranger's. 

Alice had shaken him out of his reverie by pushing the wooden plate over to him and saying, “There you are.” Merlin had been about to pick up the bread with both hands when she'd added, “Wait. Wait.”

Merlin had dropped his hands in a lightning quick motion and hidden them behind his back, wondering what he'd done wrong. Perhaps these people were religious. He hadn't said his prayers, had he? “I'm that sorry. I didn't mean to...”

“You have nothing to apologise for, boy,” Alice had said, walking back to the cupboard. “It's just that that bread over there is too dry to be served alone. It'll stick in your gullet.”

Merlin, for his part, had thought she must be a little batty. The loaf of bread she'd cut was newly baked and fragrant. There was absolutely nothing wrong with eating it as it was.

But Alice had returned to the cupboard. Standing on tip toe, she had picked a squat glass jar from one of its shelves. This she had placed on the table and taken off the lid. Lard lay inside it, thick and creamy. She'd spread it on the bread with the flat of herr knife, and a thick coating of it it had been. 

Limbs shaking from a sharp bite of hunger, Merlin had goggled. That even though he'd been fed a few hours before. When he realised he'd been doing it, he'd made sure to keep his features in check. With hesitant steps, he'd moved to the table and picked up the plate. He'd eaten slowly, allowing himself taste it all. When he'd been done with it, there had been cheese and jam too. The cheese had had a thick rind and a soft yellow core, a buttery taste to it. And the jam had had bits and pieces of rhubarb in it and was so sweet it was likely to rot his teeth if he ever ate more. Not that Merlin had cared.

When he'd looked up, hands sticky with the jam and mouth greasy from the lard, he'd been stunned to find his new master standing in the shadow of the doorway. He had had a hand on the lintel, off which he was leaning. His eyes were on Merlin, quite intent, keen. His expression had held no reproof, no condemnation. Merlin had even spied the beginnings of a smile on his face. The moment he'd realised that Merlin had been watching, however, was the moment he stepped back into the shadows.

Merlin had wondered about that for a bit, then feeling so full he'd grown sluggish with it, he'd decided it was better not to pick his brain about his master's antics and made his way upstairs. By all rights he should have dropped off the second his body touched the bedding and yet he'd had no such luck.

Here he was tossing and turning, snatches of images swimming before his eyelids, all his aches and pains riddling him still. Merlin sat up.

Moonlight cut the room in ribbons of blue and silver. It lit a huge patch of the floor and a strip of the coverlet. There was all in all enough light to steer by. 

Groaning, Merlin swept his feet off the bed. Floorboards moaning under his weight, Merlin walked to the door. 

Opening it slowly so it wouldn't creak, Merlin stepped onto the landing. A window at the end of the corridor let light seep in showers and smudges. Using those as a guide, Merlin padded forwards in the direction opposite the window's.

He stopped mid landing. On the wall hung several paintings. A few were representations of nature. In these waves crashed against rocks and storms broke on crags. Farmyard animals chased each other inside pens, while rustic cottages loomed in the background. Merlin didn't linger on any of these. He could enjoy such vistas by just ambling outside. What stopped him was the portrait that hung centre space among them. It featured a man in his fifties with hair the colour of a gun barrel and handsome features worked into sharpness. He had eyes the exact same colour as Merlin's new master's. And something, a notion Merlin had, told him that this man had to have been Mr Pendragon's father. Since there was no trace of the man in the house, Merlin concluded the portrait's subject had passed away.

A wave of sadness washed over Merlin on Mr Pendragon's behalf. It mingled with the well of it that deepened every time Merlin thought of his mother.

Not wishing to dwell on past misery, he moved on. Floorboards bending under his weight Merlin padded down the remaining length of the corridor. The cupboard was closed and so were the two rooms that came after it. But the last one, which stretched perpendicularly across the hallway, was open. 

Merlin slogged towards this part of the house. A large window allowed the moonlight in. It showered the four poster in the centre of the room -- and its occupant along with it – in its pale light. It kissed the curve of Mr Pendragon's nose and the cut of his jaw with a soft glow; it washed the colour from his hair. 

Merlin found himself staring. 

An arm flung wide outwards, Mr Pendragon shifted in his sleep, but didn't wake. The covers barely reaching his middle, his bare chest rose and fell in a rhythmic cadence. His face was quiet in repose, slack, free of the pull of tension Merlin had seen on it when Mr Pendragon had been up and about.

Merlin wondered what had put those lines on a face that looked quite youthful while at rest, what had etched worry on it. He hoped, though he had no right to being so new in this household, that Mr Pendragon was well and doing fine.

Knowing he'd dawdled there too long, Merlin pushed off the doorway and made his way downstairs. He wandered the house. After all, if he was to live in it for some time, he'd better learn the shape of it, explore it. As he moved in the dark, his heart beat a notch faster. He wasn't doing anything wrong he didn't think, or only a little wrong, so he didn't get it, but still his belly was tight with the experience of it.

Since he'd been in the kitchen before, this time he visited the front room and the drawing room. The latter was so grand with its piano and imposing fireplace he promptly backed out of it. 

Next he went into the parlour. It was large. Or at least Merlin thought it so. It was roughly the size of the cottage he'd been born in, the one with the grey walls and beaten earth for a floor. These walls, though, weren't grey, but stone and wainscot. Tables and sofas cluttered the room. Rugs covered the floor while odds and ends littered the desks. Merlin had rarely seen as much stuff all gathered together in one place. He inspected the room, taking everything in, not trusting himself to touch anything at all. His hands weren't made for fragile objects, nor his body for furniture such as this. 

He did, however, touch the spines of the books that lined the bookcase closest to the door. Some were leather and some silk, others mere cardboard. The pads of his fingers traced the gold lettering stamped across their spines, followed the whorls of the letters, and all the indentations between one impression and the next. He speculated about the meanings of those signs, wondered about them. He knew they were common place enough, that lots of people were able to read, but to him they spoke of secrets and an arcane kind of power. “Just like a witch's spell.”

When an owl screeched outside, Merlin climbed back upstairs. He put as little weight on the treads as he could, but even so when he reached the landing, Mr Pendragon was there.

“Sorry 'bout the noise, sir.” Merlin said, halting his progress. “I didn't mean to wake 'ee.”

“You can't sleep, can you?” Mr Pendragon said. “You're sore.”

Merlin lifted his head up to his shoulders. “It ain't that bad, sir.”

Mr Pendragon narrowed his eyes at him. “Go to your room.”

With a sinking feeling he wouldn't get to hold on to this job for much longer, Merlin retreated to his quarters. He slipped into bed, trying to make as little noise as possible, even while muttering, “You be a right idiot, Merlin.” Hoping sleep would come, he screwed his eyes shut.

The door opened with a click and hiss. 

Mr Pendragon stood on the threshold with a flask in his hand a jar in the other. He placed both on the night-stand. He poured water into a glass into which he mixed three drops of a thin red liquid. He stirred the concoction with a flick of his wrist and said, “Sit up and drink this.”

Merlin raised an eyebrow. “What's in that?”

“Laudanum,” Mr Pendragon said. “It's for the pain.”

Merlin took the glass from Mr Pendragon and sniffed it. It smelled sharp, like burnt leaves.“Are you sure 'tis good for sore bones?”

“Yes,” Arthur said, capping the flask again. “A very good army doctor prescribed it to me.”

Merlin studied Mr Pendragon closely. Though he had thrown on a night robe, his broad shoulders stood out just as his strong arms did. It made sense for him to have served, have been a soldier. “So you was in the army?” 

“Yes,” Mr Pendragon said, tipping the glass in Merlin's hands so that Merlin would gulp the contents of it down. “Now drink.”

“And where was it that ee fought?” Merlin put the glass down with a grimace. 

“That is really none of your business.” Mr Pendragon's mouth had tinned but it was also tipping upwards on one side. “I need you to strip off your top.”

Merlin had a feeling he'd already done a lot of stripping today. But he pulled his shirt over his head without a second thought.

Mr Pendragon whistled and sat on the bed, a little way behind Merlin. “You're black and blue.”

“Always thought 'em nice colours.” Merlin caught a glimpse of a smile on Mr Pendragon's lips. It was a fleeting one but it made him want to lard it on. “'I'm sure the other uns are worse off than me.”

“I'm sure,” Mr Pendragon said, dipping his fingertips into the bowl and gathering a dab of salve. “I advise you not to try those odds again though.”

“'T wouldna been very brave of me to run away.” Merlin bit back a grunt. Mr Pendragon was spreading the salve down Merlin's bare flank. His palms were warm, hot even, the fingers strong, adept at picking out muscle knots. “Would it?”

“Perhaps not,” Mr Pendragon said, massaging the salve into Merlin's skin with wide sweeps of his palms. “But then again sometimes tactical retreat is the best option.”

Merlin was aware Mr Pendragon was talking military strategy, of which he knew nought, but an instinct told him there was also something else they were discussing and that that perhaps was something he could comment on too. “An' would you? Have retreated then? If it was ee?”

Mr Pendragon stopped in his ministrations and barked out a short laugh. “No, probably not. But I'm not the best example.”

“So ye don't practice what ye preach.” When Mr Pendragon found a spot that hurt more than the others, Merlin hissed and shielded it with his arm. 

Mr Pendragon batted it off and smeared more paste along Merlin's back and sides, his thumb chasing a line up Merlin spine, working the kinks out. “And you don't know the wisdom of silence.”

“You're talking all right too.”

“I am the master,” Mr Pendragon said, his palm kneading Merlin's flank and spreading more of the sticky unguent over Merlin's hip. “You're the servant.”

“There be no difference in the eyes of the lord.” Merlin remembered the words from when he was little, the cadence and sound of them, and spat them out again with little thought.

“So you're religious.” Mr Pendragon finished applying the last of the unguent to Merlin's bruises, working its burn into Merlin's skin.

Merlin's face burned with a heat that had no place surfacing right at this moment, none at all. He breathed deep, swallowed and, studied the coverlet, noticing the frills of it, its variegated pattern “No,” he answered by and by. “Not at all. There's some places that drive all religion out of ee.”

Mr Pendragon's drew back, his warmth gone like the last of the summer sun. The bed creaked when he stood. He didn't ask Merlin what he'd meant and he didn't dance around it either. Instead he capped the laudanum bottle and put the lid back on the jar. Once it was firmly in place, he paced back to the bed. An eyebrow up, he looked Merlin up and down. 

Unable to hold his gaze, Merlin looked down.

Mr Pendragon grabbed his face in one hand and tilted it up. “Tomorrow I'll get Alice to find something for these gashes of yours.” 

“No need,” Merlin said, his voice rough with some new kind of awkwardness he didn't remember experiencing before. Surely, he'd never been in awe of anyone's station prior to this. So what was with him tonight. “I'm a brave bit better.”

“You'll get treatment and that's it.” Mr Pendragon thumbed the edges of the cut that streaked across Merlin's cheekbone. He stepped back. “I intend to sleep tomorrow night.”

“I suppose there be no getting out of it.” Though he hadn't meant to, Merlin had disturbed the master's slumbers, so he understood he should stop being a right nuisance. Still, it was his body to do with as he pleased and he didn't much appreciate being fussed over. So he tacked on a little defiant,“Sir.” 

“I've hired a farmhand who's more trouble than he's worth, haven't I?” Mr Pendragon's lips twitched as if in merriment, but he still bore a frown of dissatisfaction on his forehead. “Well, good night, Merlin.”

Sensing he'd stretched his luck, Merlin didn't think it wise to speak out loud, but not to say anything felt wrong. So he murmured the words low in his throat 'good night, Mr Pendragon.”


	7. Dower Manor

Sunlight washed over the table spread, on the dainty tea pot with the blue flowers, on the array of cups and saucers that matched it, on the round plates piled up with food. On them lay rolls fresh from the oven, browned and crispy, slices of bread, both white and rye, strips of ham marinated in sherry and hard-boiled eggs. Spoonfuls of preserve lay in different tiny bowls. Peach, blueberry, currant and lime were the choices of the day. 

When Lancelot strolled in, Gwen was spreading a dollop of golden butter onto a slice of bread. “How was your morning walk?” 

“Perfect, bracing,” he said, bending over her chair to kiss her cheek. “But I missed you.”

“I'll join you next time,” she said, tilting her face up, and catching a whiff of his lovely scent. It made her senses swim and wish she could drag him back into the bedroom. It was not proper, not when it was already morning, the household all about, Sefa toeing and froing just outside, the footman cleaning the silver in the next room but one. Reminding herself of that, she let Lancelot take a seat opposite her. “I promise.”

He spread a napkin across his knees and poured some hot chocolate in his cup. “What if I asked you to come out for another walk later?”

“Haven't you had enough exercise for one day?” She smiled and raised an eyebrow.

Lancelot lifted the cup to his lips. “No, not all. I feel like I could walk to the ends of the earth. Besides, I love doing things with you.”

Gwen felt soft in all places at once and, even though she had had other plans involving the running of her new household, could not deny him. So after Sefa had cleared out the table, they set out. 

Past the hamlet of Carnebone, they took the vicarage path. In places it was overgrown with brush and trees arched overhead, but it was not so wild it couldn't be trodden and she liked the hint of shadow and seclusion its current state provided. She enjoyed being lost in this little wilderness with Lancelot, feeling his warm palm in hers, enjoying picking out the pitch of his breathing amidst all the noises of nature, feeling the strain of his muscles as he flattened the under-brush with his cane.

The turn to the left that ought to have taken them onto the coastal walk and allowed them to double back opened up. Lancelot, however, continued on straight, taking the overgrown path that lay ahead. 

“Lancelot,” she said, squeezing his palm, “where are we going?”

“You'll see.” Lancelot's lips curved into a smile. “Just indulge me for a while longer.”

“So this is to be a secret?” She brushed her body against his. “Is it?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

They kept walking for another half hour, their bodies warm with the lingering heat of the sun and exercise. At last they came upon a larger path and a wooden fence.

Lancelot opened it.

“Lancelot, what are you doing!” She tugged on his hand so he would slow down. “This is private property. We're trespassing.”

Lancelot turned around, lips curled upwards. “Rest easy, please, Guinevere. We have permission.”

“Permission?” Guinevere frowned, wondering who Lancelot could have got this permission from. 

“Indeed.” He took both her hands in his. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course I do.” 

By and by they came upon a manor house. The building was roughly square, with semi-circular towers at the corners and turrets dotting a façade already ornate with gables and mullioned bay windows. Rectangular stacks rose along the length of the slate roof. There was a central three-story section with wings on each side, with one facing the other. The main building itself came in a different style, grey stone to rose. The lower floor windows were boarded up from the inside and a wall of ivy that was wilder than it was ornamental covered the front door.

On this Lancelot knocked. 

“Lancelot,” Gwen said, clinging to his side. “I think this place is abandoned.”

Lancelot smiled but didn't say anything.

With a mighty creak the door opened. A young woman with a cloth bandeau in her hair stood behind it. Upon sight of them, she curtsied low and said, “You're a fair bit early, sir.”

“It's such a splendid morning,” Lancelot told her. “I couldn't abide staying in the house much longer.”

“Please follow me,” the maid said, making way for them.

The hall was grand with ancient wood reaching up from skirting boards to ceiling, picture alcoves, and a large sweeping staircase, above which a coat of arms was displayed. It featured a cross, a lion rampant, a snake rearing among vines and cherubs sitting along the scroll. Along it a Latin motto unfolded. 

“The kitchens and dining rooms are on the east side,” the maid said, pointing in that direction. “While the laundry, the leisure room and the study are on the west one.”

“Perfect exposure.” Lancelot followed the girl into the grand salon. “I imagine summer mornings must be perfect here.”

“This is the great salon.” The maid stood in its middle her hands clasped together. “That door opens onto a loggia but I don't have the keys to it now. Mr Dower has them.”

From its windows Gwen could spy the garden: its ripe flower beds, its meandering paths and geometrical alleys, planted on both sides with elder trees. 

“That doesn't matter, Mab,” said Lancelot, while Gwen was so distracted. “I understand he's in Truro.”

“Yes, sir.” Mab nodded. “He's almost finished moving.”

“I trust he's well?” 

“Oh, yes, indeed, sir,” Mab said, with an affirmative toss of the head. “He was right merry the other day, finally getting his heart's wish. He came to supervise the movers.”

The gallery upstairs was long and the floor creaked with every step they took. The succession of windows lit it up in a glow like gold. 

“These are all family pictures,” Mab said, lifting her skirts as she led them down the gallery. “Not all of them will stay.”

“But where are you taking them?” Gwen couldn't refrain from asking.

“Mr Dower will want them for his new house in Truro.” Mab craned her head to look at Gwen. “They're family heirlooms, ma'am.”

The house had many rooms. Some overlooked the drive while others had a view of the gardens. There were bedrooms and boudoirs, anterooms and private studies as well as a library and billiard room. The latter was the most modern, with plenty of light flooding in, while the bedrooms were furnished according to an older style, a little darker, a little more cramped.

They visited the manor from top to bottom and had tea in the kitchens. Mab explained that most of the china was gone and apologised about having to make do with the old tea set. Mr Dower was apparently adamant Mab offer the du Lacs some refreshments but had forgotten that Mab had been left with little in the way of crockery. 

Gwen reassured her that her tea was excellent and that the china was very pretty. 

“'Tis only the third best, ma'am.”

When they'd had their tea, they parted ways from Mab. They took a different path from the one they'd started on earlier in the morning, but one that, Lancelot reassured her, would get them home equally fast. 

“What I don't get is why we visited the place,” Gwen said, hooking her arm through Lancelot's. “I'm sure the house is beautiful, if a little lonely, and Mab is an excellent girl but still...”

Lancelot halted in his progress, turned around and cupped her face. “My dear Guinevere, haven't you guessed?”

Her brow puckered. “What should I have guessed?”

“Dower Manor is ours, Guinevere,” Lancelot said, pressing a kiss on her forehead. “I bought it for you.”

Gwen couldn't believe he had. He had given her no sign, nor discussed the matter with her at all. There'd been no hint, no word dropped on the subject. “This is news indeed!”

“I know I should have told you.” He looked down, lines between his eyes. “But I wanted it to be a surprise. A special wedding gift.” He met her gaze. “I hope you're not disappointed?”

“Disappointed? How could I be!” She shook her head, releasing a sigh. “The house is splendid.” It perhaps needed a little work but she had never seen such a stately place before. “But I wouldn't want you to get in financial straits over it.”

“Financial straits!” Lancelot laughed gently. “I'm doing very well, Guinevere. The salt mine business is flourishing and I have savings. We are not by any means ruined.”

“In which case,” she said, pushing off her toes and kissing him. “I'm calling myself very, very happy indeed.”


	8. The Keenly Load

Merlin proved to be a decent farmhand. He woke early – though he did a lot of eye knuckling on all days but Sunday – worked almost ceaselessly from sunrise to sunset, and, though he sometimes argued against them, obeyed most orders. When the complaining took place, Merlin never sounded serious about it. His objections were always seasoned with a smile, eyes disappearing into a series of lines and folds, mouth quirking softly upwards. On a few choice occasions, he went on short rants about the exploitation of the masses and landlord oppression, which he'd had to have picked up from some town rabble rouser, and which were all but short lived and more often then not repeated with an eye to caricaturing the original deliverer. Point made, Merlin would always do the job requested of him. 

Over the summer Merlin and Arthur cleared overgrown fields, tilled others, and prepared the land for crops, turning the soil with the help of the new plough and weeding it by hand where no machine could help. Together they raked and hoed, rolled and manured, and limed and watered. They broke big clods of earth with their pickaxes, trimmed hedges, and dug and seeded. With the stones they picked off, they made lanes and irrigation canals.

They were late with the sowing. By all rights they ought to have done most of it in the spring. But Arthur hadn't been there then, so they were forced to finish the work of months in half the time it would normally take, knowing quite well the produce would be scarce. It was still a start, a laying of the foundations for future years.

It was fairly back-breaking work too. 

Most nights Arthur went to bed with a pain in his back and with his old wound throbbing. Minus the war injury, Merlin couldn't be fairing much better, though, it had to be said, he looked healthier than when Arthur had first hired him. Though he was still as lean as a greyhound, his cheeks weren't so hollow anymore and he was starting to develop some muscle mass.

Even with all the benefits of a better diet, Merlin sometimes got the worst end of it. Having business in town, Arthur couldn't be at Trevena all the time and when he was away the bulk of the work fell on Merlin's shoulders. And though Gaius would then try and offer his help, there was not much the old man could do – or that Merlin would let him do. Arthur had caught Merlin lying to Gaius on plenty of occasions; had heard him say that what most had to be done was some light task Gaius could tackle easily while in truth what needed seeing to was some other taxing chore.

This was the reason why Arthur pretended not to notice when at the end of a hard day Merlin occasionally wandered off, why he turned a blind eye to his peregrinations. Merlin roamed the fields and lanes, stalked country paths, and even went to the beach from time to time, returning home with sand adhering to his soles, his shirt wet and sticking to his wiry frame, a sack full of pickings slung over his shoulders. What was in the sack stayed a mystery since Merlin wouldn't talk about its contents and Arthur refused to show too marked an interest by asking more than once. As fore the reason of these adventures, Arthur couldn't tell whether Merlin was only learning the lay of the land or whether he had a girl somewhere he went a-courting – or tumbling – but he did know it was impossible to get Merlin to stay put.

Today, however, when Arthur returned from an outing to Camelford, Merlin was most certainly intent on his duties.

He was working one of the higher fields, the one overlooking Bossiney Cove. He was leading the nag by the halter, making sure to lead it straight so that the plough could do its work. Without faltering and egging the animal on with a smile and a murmured word, he turned at the end of a furrow, plodding steadily around the rig they had marked out together the day before. When clumps of earth stopped the ploughshare, he lifted the top edge of the contraption, dusted off the mouldboard, then let it down again. Up and down the long straight furrow he plodded, his shirt off, his torso washed in the afternoon glow, the whispering of a sunburn on his pectorals. The nag walked in the hollow of the furrow, muzzle down. The sun lowering on the horizon, seagulls screeching greedily and swooping down from the sky to search the newly turned earth to for morsels, man and animal continued in their task.

Arthur spurred Hengroen over to Merlin. 

Not having noticed him, Merlin drove the plough on, laying the chain straight out along a thin furrow. When it caught on a root, Merlin bent down and removed the stalk from the ploughshare. Its blade shone underneath like a sickle moon the earth had polished to brightness. 

“Good afternoon, Merlin,” Arthur said.

Merlin started, dropped the plough. “Oh, it's ee. But ye gave me a sore fright.”

“I didn't think such a hardy boy as you would get scared at so little.”

Merlin scowled. “Twas the manner, so sudden like. I thought you was in town.”

With a tug of reins, Arthur kept Hengroen in check. “I'm back now.”

“I can see that.” Merlin snorted, though he did it with a smile and twinkling eyes, then leant down again. “'Tis stuck.”

Arthur studied the plough. “Leave it. The landside has sunk too low. There's something wrong with it.”

“I can work it unstuck,” Merlin said, trying to lift the plough by the beam. “I'll give it a right kick and--”

“I said leave it, Merlin,” Arthur said, Hengroen fussing under him at the tone of his voice.

Merlin dropped the beam. “But--”

“It weighs a tonne. You'll break your back.” 

Merlin was still bent over the plough, but even so he managed to send Arthur a not so surreptitious glance. “So you care about me health then?”

“I surely don't want to lose my only farmhand.” Arthur scanned the horizon. Grey clouds smeared the sky and lowered visibility. The sea was crested with white and a swell was rising. Even so white sails dotted the expanse, ploughing through the turbulent waters. “It'd be bad for business.”

“But what about the plough?”

“We'll ask help of the village boys.” Arthur had grown up here. He knew of more than a few. “They'll be happy to assist.”

“Aye, in return for money ye don't have,” he said, scuffing his toe against a stone. “Or because they have something else in their sights.”

“Merlin, enough.” Though he appreciated Merlin's defensiveness on his behalf, Arthur made sure to sound and look like he meant it. “I said you're not to do it alone and that's final.”

Merlin frowned, but did as he was told. He cleaned his hands on his trousers and unhitched the nag from the plough.

As Arthur turned Hengroen around and pointed him homewards, Merlin prompted the nag forwards. “Ye haven't said how your day was.”

Arthur clacked his lips at the horse. “I paid off a debt. Bought a couple of shares. Ordinary business and boring.”

Merlin smiled a lopsided smile. “If ye say so.”

Arthur felt the urge to inquire whether Merlin was unhappy with his lot in life, the things he couldn't do, but in the end he didn't. It wasn't in his place as Merlin's master and Merlin might feel Arthur was mocking a situation he couldn't do anything to change. Thus they made it back to the house in silence, though it was by no means a strained one. 

They stabled the horses. Merlin raked the old straw into a pile, raising its scent, and scattered some fresh hay around. He groomed the nag with a soft brush, soothing the sweaty beast, all the while talking nonsense to it. Hengroen he left to Arthur.

“You prefer the nag,” Arthur said, putting his own brush down.

“He be the poor man's horse, sir,” Merlin said, flashing him a grin. “Besides, with all the hard jobs I put 'im to, he deserves a little in the way of treats.”

Arthur should have ordered Merlin to wash before entering the house, but he only told him to clean his hands and put a shirt on. 

When they got in, Alice announced that dinner was ready. 

“Right,” Arthur said. “Serve us both in the parlour.”

Alice's questioning gaze lingered on Arthur first and on Merlin second. 

Merlin had gone bug-eyed but at length he shrugged. 

They sat one across from the other at Arthur's work table. Alice served them white soup and stuffed turkey in a clear gelatinous sauce.

As he ate, Arthur studied one of the maps of the area. 

Merlin, instead, had nothing to distract him from his food. He went at it slowly and methodically. Sometimes he picked up a piece of bread and dunked it in the sauce. At other times he licked it off the fork. When the meat became sparser and stuck the bone in thin strips, Merlin picked up the leg with his fingers and nibbled at strings of white flesh. 

When Merlin realised Arthur was looking at him, he put the chewed on morsel down and picked his knife and fork back up.

Arthur sniffed with laughter.

“It ain't that funny,” Merlin said, pursing his mouth. 

“It was a little funny.” Arthur's lips tugged upwards.

“If yer to tease like that,” Merlin said, pushing to his feet with his plate hugged to his chest, “I'm going to have me dinner with Alice and Gaius.”  
Arthur hooked a foot around his calf and pulled Merlin's leg forwards.

Merlin plonked back down with a yelp. From then onwards Merlin made sure to dine as noisily as possible, smacking his lips together after he'd drunk, indulging in the clanking of flatware, and masticating loudly, in a way he never did, not even when he was famished. Arthur had seen him in such straits before and this was not it. But at length his irritation seemed to wear off, and the noises died down. After a while he even said, “By the way did yo know there be a mine on the property?”

“No, Merlin.” Arthur rolled his eyes heavenwards. “I'm not aware of the nature of my inheritance.”

Merlin snuffled. “Because there's a silver lead in that mine – an' copper. And a keenly lode of it too.”

Arthur's brow folded in a multiplicity of creases. “You didn't just pass by it, did you? You went in there.”

“Um, I was having a stroll and the moon was shining right nice overhead. An' I saw the old signs an' I just went down.”

“That was stupid of you!” Merlin could have killed himself with his antics. “That mine is dangerous. It's been closed off for years. Ventilation is bad. The shafts aren't properly shored up anymore and the adits are half flooded!”

Merlin caught his lip between his teeth, eyes sheepishly flaring. “''Twasn't that dangerous. I didn't even go deep!”

“Regardless.” Arthur huffed through his nostrils. “There are other dangers lurking in there besides those to structural integrity.” Arthur had been warned of them when he was a child, for God's sake. Merlin was old enough, and hopefully wise enough, to know better. “This is smuggler country, Merlin. Every beach and combe from here to Penzance teems with the miscreants.”

“I've never seen none.”

“I assure you they're there,” Arthur said, arching an eyebrow. “And they use caves and disused mines for their lairs.”

“Lairs?” Merlin laughed, as if the word or the notion pleased him. “Sounds like the tales old Kilgey used to tell.”

“Kilgey?” 

“Just an old friend,” Merlin said, dropping his gaze. 

They finished their food in relative quiet, their comments few and far between and mostly of a general nature. Once the plates had been stacked, Merlin helped Alice clear up, spent some time in the kitchen chatting with Gaius, his voice drifting over to Arthur in the parlour, and then, when both Gaius and Alice had retired for the night, thundered upstairs.

Arthur wrote some business letters and when he was done with them, he started on an agricultural treatise. The book, a publication his grandfather had bought, had a cracked cover and was disintegrating at the corners. Arthur turned yellowed page upon yellowed page until the words started to blur one into the other. Before long he'd completely stopped making sense of the text. 

Snapping the book shut, Arthur stared ahead. What if... In a clutter of boots he got himself upright and stomped upstairs. Merlin's door was open, so he walked right in. 

Merlin was sitting on his bed, carving a pale wooden figurine out of a block of wood that must have been a piece of driftwood before it had been sandpapered smooth. Merlin's hands were quick at paring and whittling, the knife flashing in his hands.

“If you're not too busy,” Arthur said, “come with me.”

Putting one of his feet on the floor, Merlin sat up straighter. “Why? Where are we going?”

The buildings making up the the mine stood huddled together on a hill opposite the spread of Trevena valley, husks of what had at one time been the main works. Once they would have teemed with life. Miners would have been ready to start their cores, the engine house would have been lit up, shedding light all over the headland, and draught bobs would have been pumping water. As it was, the engine house was empty and dark, no bell sounded to call the miners to work, and the pump didn't clank as it sucked water up.

Merlin hopped off Hengroen first. Arthur reined up, dismounted and tied the horse to one of the posts outside the main office. 

Shoulders bumping, they walked towards one of the wells. “If ye do find the ore, are ye going to re-open the mine?”

“Hold your horses, Merlin, I have first to establish whether there's anything to your tale.”

Merlin's voice rose when he said, “I didn't dream the load I saw!”

“What I doubt is your competence at spotting a load,” Arthur said, letting the moonlight guide him along the path. “How could you even tell what you saw was silver?”

Merlin puffed crossly. “I know enough. I've known many a miner in my day.”

Arthur laughed both at the tone and implication of the words. ”And where would you have met all these miners of yours, oh wise one, seeing as you're no miner yourself?”

“I just 'ave sources.” Merlin drew himself up. “Or used to have 'em. And know more than ee'd think.” 

They went in and took the ladder that led down the shaft, leaving behind the fresh air for the stench of the mine. 

“How deep do it go?” Merlin asked as he stepped down after him.

“I have no idea,” Arthur told him, even as he watched where he was going. One misstep here and they could injure themselves gravely, the more so since the well was only lit by the moonlight showering downwards from overhead, and the rungs were slippery in places. Given all the creaking it was doing, the ladder was likely rotten too. “The mine closed before I was born. But most around here aren't go deeper than thirty fathoms, anyway. I have no reason to believe this one to be any different.”

“That'd be deep enough,” Merlin said, huffing above him.

“More of your mining knowledge surfacing?”

“Nah,” Merlin said. “I just don't like the smell of the shafts.”

When they got to the first platform, they lit torches so they could see where they were going. With Arthur in the lead, they advanced down an incline that led away from the access shaft. Slowly descending into the heart of the mine, they walked past rusty pumps and scraps of broken gear.

When obstacles arose, Arthur swung his lantern round to shine his light on them. “So where was it that you saw these ore loads?”

“I think I went deeper,” Merlin told him, breathing hard to keep pace. “I'd know betterer if ye let me walk ahead.”

“No.” Arthur shook his head from side to side. “You'd kill yourself.”

“I be the one who's actually been here before, right and proper!” Merlin's boots squelched in the mud.

“Just tell me where to go.”

Merlin hummed out loud, made a noise with his tongue. “We need to bear all the way left.”

They squeezed their way into the drive below, turning east as Merlin had said. Down here the walls were damp, the air was close, and stagnant water rose up to their ankles. Small chunks of rock detached themselves from the roof of the tunnel and rained down on them.

From time to time Arthur shone his lantern around to see if there was any trace of a silver vein. He couldn't spot any, but it was too early to say. Merlin was adamant he'd gone deeper and maybe he was telling tall tales, but, for all his cocky attitude, he wasn't the type, and if he was right Arthur's fortunes could change drastically from here on.

In spite of the incentive, the descent was hard. Arthur's feet were cramping from the cold, his breeches were getting stained with oily water and he was developing a crick on the neck from all the bending he had to do. “This is the original part of the mine,” he said even though he didn't think Merlin would care about such things, “the first shaft.”

“Did your father have it dug?”

“No, my great-great grandfather did.” Arthur's breath was coming in puffs now. “My father only changed its name. From Wheal Crebor to Wheal Ygraine.”

“Ygraine?”

“My mother,” Arthur said, though he didn't know why he was sharing this information with Merlin of all people.

“He must have loved her very much.” 

Arthur huffed low in his throat. “And what do you know about love, Merlin?”

Merlin waited before answering, and just when Arthur thought he wouldn't anymore, he said, “That it makes ee ever so happy and fills yer heart to the brim.”

“It tears it apart.” And left it in rags. “That's what love does to you. If it doesn't, you haven't really been in love.”

“I don't think that be true,” Merlin murmured softly.

They stepped into another tunnel, one that moved further eastwards. Albeit underground, they were doubling back towards the Trevena house. Down here, the air here was foul, nigh unbreathable, and had the stench of natural gases. Arthur doubted they could keep going for long with it in their nostrils. Soon the candle would flicker out too. 

“There!” Merlin said, splashing past him. “''Twas past those beams that I saw it.”

The tunnel, propped up by beam-work, widened into a subterranean chamber. 

Merlin rushed towards it, shouting, “Here, it were here!”

“Watch out, you idiot!” Sure Merlin would run afoul of some deep hole, Arthur ran to catch up with him. Hopefully he could prevent the dimwit from dashing to his death. “Merlin!”

When Arthur got to him, Merlin lifted the lantern so that a wide arc of light flashed across the rock wall.

A streak of silver shone like moonlight along the gashes in its surface. Thin veins of it meandered here and there in vine-like patterns, losing themselves in the darkness the tunnels were drenched in. 

Arthur's heart missed a beat, both at the rugged beauty of what he was seeing, and with the hope that flooded in his chest, hope for his future, for the property, for his legacy. There wasn't enough to make him rich, but there was certainly enough to keep him afloat, to get him going, and maybe if they dug deeper, they'd stumble upon more ore.

Feeling incredibly light of body, Arthur laughed aloud, the sound echoing down the tunnel and ricocheting back at him. Acting on an impulse to do, shout, act, he grabbed Merlin by the scruff of the neck, ruffled his hair and, heart overflowing with all sorts of feelings, put a kiss to his temple. “Sometimes, Merlin, you're a genius!”


	9. The Invitation

Merlin sharpened the sickle with a whetting stone. One stroke following the other regularly and surely, he ran the tool along the dull edge of the blade. “Ye never did tell me about the army,” Merlin told Mr Pendragon. “When ye was a soldier. ”

“That's because,” Mr Pendragon said, tying up another sheaf of wheat, “it is no merry tale.”

The stone whistled against the blade as Merlin worked. “Not all tales have to be.”

“No.” Mr Pendragon looked up sharply. “No, you're right.”

As he waited for Mr Pendragon to respond, Merlin's rhythm faltered. 

“My father wanted to buy me a captain commission,” Mr Pendragon said, sitting with his back to one of the bales. “He said a gentleman should be a high ranking officer.” His lips twitched and he sought out Merlin's gaze with his. “I'm sure that's something you wouldn't approve of.”

“You'd be right.” Even if he had his eyes on Mr Pendragon, Merlin continued stripping the sickle's blade. “It ain't as it should be. Only brains and experience do make a general.”

“I actually agree with you.” Mr Pendragon stretched one leg out, and tipped his head back against the stack of hay behind him. “So I insisted on starting as a plain ensign. After a few months training my regiment was sent over to America.”

Merlin had so many questions about that. He wondered what the country was like, how hard the journey. Since Merlin had never been outside of Cornwall, he wished Mr Pendragon would tell him about his impressions of that faraway land. But he knew better than to ask.

Mr Pendragon went on. “It was easy at first. Or as easy as war could be. I obeyed orders. Did what I was told. I must have been good at it because I was promoted fairly quickly. I made it to lieutenant and then captain. By '81 I had my own men under my command.”

“Wasn't that a good thing?” Merlin believed it had to be. A captaincy had to mean more freedom, not taking orders, but relaying them.

“In a way.” Mr Pendragon bowed his head. “I made friends, met men with the most brilliant of qualities, loyalty, courage, intelligence. I thought I was cut out for an army life. I thought that that could be my calling. But in many other respects I found it wasn't anything anyone would really desire.”

“I don't understand.” Merlin put stone and sickle down, worked his legs under him, and leant forward. “Ye just said it was right for ye.”

“Merlin, I sent men to their deaths in the name of a strategic objective the generals couldn't let go of even though in the grand scheme of things it turned out to make no difference at all. I obeyed orders to loot and lay land to waste so we could hobble the enemy. I don't want to imagine the damage I wreaked upon innocents. I lost friends. I lost young men who had no place to die. Though the whole campaign was not easy, Cowpen was a disaster in terms of men lost. Yorktown, however – Yorktown was the lowest point.”

“What happened there?” Going by the hardening of Mr Pendragon's features, Merlin was was certain this would be a tale of woe and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. But it was a part of Mr Pendragon's life he'd never talked about before, a series of events that had made him the man he was, and as such Merlin could do nothing but listen. “What happened in that place?

“The French had deployed their whole fleet while we had a much smaller force under General Grove.” Mr Pendragon seemed to be looking inwardly. “The French navy defeated our fleet at the Chesapeake, and this was bad news for us.” Mr Pendragon took a big breath. “We were trapped. Yorktown became our prison. General Cornwallis couldn't carve his way out of it. When Washington got to us... It was a veritable hell.” Mr Pendragon's gaze got lost in the distance and his voice thinned. “We were surrounded by the American and French forces, and weathering bombardment from siege cannon. Men fell one after the other, like flies. Our supplised dwindled. I still remember it all. The wounded crying, the hungry scavenging for victuals because they hadn't seen any food in days. The rows of dead in the infirmary... It's something that can't properly be described. Or at least, being no poet, I don't have the words for it.”

Merlin wanted to put a hand on Mr Pendragon's shoulder and squeeze. He wished he could tell him that he understood. Not all of it, but definitely some of it. He certainly knew hunger. He had seen people die, though of illness rather than from wounds. But all that was beside the point. “I'm that sorry ye had to live through all that,” he said because relieving Mr Pendragon of his pain was all that really mattered. “Nobody should.”

“You're right. Nobody should be made to experience that, not if there isn't good cause.” Mr Pendragon's jaw tensed. “I could have understood if we were defending hearth and home. Those come first and any man worth his salt should be ready to sacrifice himself in their defence.” Mr Pendragon's eyes sparked and his tone filled with passion. In that moment he seemed to Merlin more inspiring than any street preacher or priest he'd ever listened to. There was a raw honesty to his words that none of them could match. “But this war... The waste of it...”

"Now I see why ye don't talk about it."

"Yorktown is not one of my most cherished memories," Mr Pendragon said with a wince that, Merlin felt, wanted to be a smile.

“Was it where ee got wounded?” It would make sense; Mr Pendragon had talked about heavy bombardment and it was likely he hadn't got out of it scot free. “The reason ye got hurt?” 

Mr Pendragon shifted. “No, it was later, during a simple skirmish, ironically enough.”

“What happened?” Merlin bowed his head. “If ye want to say. It be all right if ye don't.”

“I was lucky that's what happened.”

“But you still be in pain.” Otherwise Mr Pendragon wouldn't still have the laudanum he'd given Merlin and he wouldn't favour one side when he walked. Most of it was imperceptible, but sometimes, when he was tired, Merlin could see it. “I know it.”

“Only when I overdo it,” Mr Pendragon said, massaging his hip. “I was lucky it was only a superficial wound.”

“I'm right glad it was.” If it had been worse, Mr Pendragon might not have made it and Merlin would never had met him. That was not a circumstance Merlin liked to think about. “I'll be doing all the hard jobs meself, I promise.”

Mr Pendragon's eyes flashed. “I didn't hire you to work you to death.”

“Ye didn't. There be a difference between 'ard work and working onself to death.” Merlin knew it first hand. He had seen the effects of relentless toil on men, women and children. He was aware of what it entailed and didn't need to be told. “And this ain't it.”

“Merlin.” Mr Pendragon's fist curled. “When you speak about your past, you...”

A big chestnut horse trotted into view. Its rider was wearing a wide brimmed hat and holding a riding whip he was making no use of. In spite of this he was leading his mount with a sure hand, directing it along the track that coasted the fields, where stalks of wheat waved in the breeze. Once the man had got closer, it became clear he was a gentleman. His riding gear was of prime, newly burnished leather. His was clothing fine, too: his brown coat was of good cloth, his trousers tailored to suit his frame, and his shirt had cuffs laced with frills. With a gentle tug of the reins, the newcomer brought his horse to a halt. “Arthur,” he said, with a tentative yet earnest smile, “Gaius told me you'd be out here.”

Though bare chested, Mr Pendragon rose to his feet and brushed hay and dust off his breeches with great nonchalance. “Yes, this is where I'm more likely to be found these days. Seeing to the fields. Apparently crops won't plant themselves. ”

The rider laughed a gentle laugh then his gaze turned to Merlin. 

Mr Pendragon clutched Merlin's bare bicep. “Lancelot, this is Merlin. My new farmhand.” He tilted his head at Merlin. “Merlin, this is Mr Lancelot du Lac.”

Mr du Lac said, “Pleased to meet you, Merlin. I'm glad Arthur has someone to help him with the farm.”

Merlin had seldom spoken to such a fine gentleman before, so he wasn't sure how to act. He settled for keeping his gaze on the middle distance and saying, “Sir,” tipping an imaginary hat off. “'Tis a pleasure.”

Mr du Lac nodded in acknowledgement, then he turned his attention back to Mr Pendragon. “I know that perhaps we haven't parted on the best of terms--”

“Lancelot.” Mr Pendragon's face closed off.

“And I understand why,” Mr du Lac said. “But believe me when I say I don't want to lose your friendship.”

“You haven't.” Mr Pendragon's lashes were down, shading his gaze.

“It's been months since the wedding, Arthur.” Mr du Lac drew the reins tighter as his chestnut sidestepped. “I haven't seen you once in all that time.”

Head down, hands on hips, Mr Pendragon shifted his weight. “I've been busy with Trevena.” 

“So I've been told.” Mr du Lance's gaze swept over the fields. “I can see how much work you've put into it. Your commitment to it does great credit to your character. But that's no reason not to visit.”

The tension between Mr Pendragon and Mr du Lac was palpable, Merlin felt. It wasn't in the words they said and it certainly wasn't in Mr du Lac's demeanour, which was calm and open, but it nonetheless oozed from Mr Pendragon's attitude, from his tight shoulders, his pursed mouth, and the restlessness that haunted his gaze. Merlin didn't understand any of it, doubted that he, a simple man unused to the gentry, would get any of it. But he wished it weren't so and that he had enough wisdom and social graces to smooth things out, or failing that, that Mr du Lac hadn't called at all. 

“You're right,” Mr Pendragon said, tossing his head back, his face as free of expression as before. “I have been remiss. I'll make amends.”

“You weren't remiss.” Mr du Lac smiled. “Guinevere and I understand completely.”

Mr Pendragon's flushed from neck upwards. “Lancelot...”

“It would be hard on any man.” Mr du Lac's horse pranced under him but that didn't change his tone or ruffle his composure at all. “But we still miss you, Arthur.”

“I'll drop by,” Mr Pendragon said, squaring his jaw as if in preparation for some teeth pulling. “I promise.”

“Why don't you come tonight, then?” One of Mr du Lac's shoulders went up. “I have bought a new house, Dower Manor, you'll know it. It's undergone some renovations and it's is finally ready for guests. Guinevere and I are having a celebratory dinner. I think I've invited half the county over. I was happy to. They're all friends. People who've watched us grow up; people we've grown alongside with. You were the notable absentee on the guest list. I cannot even tell you how sad the idea made me. You've always been our dearest friend and with our bygones, Arthur... I had to come. I had to come and ask you round.”

Mr Pendragon placed his hand on his hip, dipped his head and sucked in a breath.

“Please, let me wrest a promise from you,” Mr du Lac said. “Your presence would give me great joy.” There was a pause, like the beat of a pair of wings, and then Mr du Lac added, “And Guinevere, of course.”

Mr Pendragon set his chin. “Lancelot, after a day in the fields, I'll be tired and no great conversationalist--”

“Arthur, we're not really after sparking wit,” Mr du Lac said. “Your presence will be more than enough.”

“I'll be there.” With his shoulders up in the way of hackles and his mouth pursed, Mr Pendragon didn't much look like someone who'd just been invited to a social gathering and more like a man who'd told he'd have to attend a wake. “I promise.” 

Mr du Lac smiled with evident joy and his shoulders went down in relief. “Good,” he said, toying with his horse whip. “I'll send the carriage round at seven.”

“There'll be no need for a carriage.”

“Nonetheless.” Mr du Lac wheeled his horse around. 

Merlin watched Mr du Lac ride away and saw Mr Pendragon's countenance stiffen further. “Ye don't have to go if ye don't want to.” 

Mr Pendragon thrust out his bottom lip. “That, Merlin, is none of your business.”

Merlin flinched, felt as if insides ill-fit his body, and hung his head. “Yes, sir.”

There was more work to do. There always was at Trevena. But today it took place in silence. The strokes of their sickles synchronous, they scythed down stalks, bound up corn sheaves, and thrashed them with a flail, winnowing away the chaff. So keenly intent on his work was he that Mr Pendragon most looked as though he would welcome no further question.

Merlin was trying to focus too, but his thoughts ran away from him and went to the encounter that had just taken place. Was Mr du Lac really an old friend of Mr Pendragon's? And if that was the case, why wasn't Mr Pendragon delighted to see him? He'd been invited to a party too. That, Merlin reckoned, should be cause for happiness. Merlin had never been to one in his life but he believed seeing one's friends should be a cause for rejocing. As a reaction Mr Pendragon's made no sense. Perhaps the gentry acted on a code that was intrinsically different from Merlin's? That had to be it...

Back hurting, Merlin straightened and watched Mr Pendragon at his work. Out here in the fields he looked like any ordinary man would. His body glistened with sweat from nape to torso, his back muscles shifted under his skin, and his fingers bled from burst splinters just as much as Merlin's did. But, Merlin supposed, there the similarities ended. However much Mr Pendragon might look like any other labourer, the truth was that he was not. As Mr du Lac's quick acknowledgement proved, he belonged to Mr du Lac's world.

Merlin said, “Arthur--”

Mr Pendragon flailed the dry corn ears so hard they split and mashed into a pulp. “Not a word, Merlin.” 

Merlin put his back back into the work. 

When dusk fell, Mr Pendragon went back to the house to wash and dress, while Merlin milked the cows and fed the calves. When Merlin made it back himself, he was still upstairs. 

When Merlin stomped into the kitchen, Alice was stirring the pot simmering over the hearth with a big wooden spoon. “Have you washed at the pump, young man? You know how particular Mr Pendragon is.”

Merlin shifted, thrust his hands in the pockets of his trousers and looked away. “Um.”

As the contents of the pot bubbled, Alice sprinkled herbs on it. “You haven't, have you? You know Arthur won't like it.”

“'E won't notice,” Merlin said, scratching his nape. “''E's going out.”

Alice's eyebrows knitted together. “Going out?”

Merlin thrust his chin out. “Aye, 'e's going to rub shoulders with the gentlefolk.”

Hands on hips, Alice turned around around. “Whatever do you mean?”

Merlin shrugged. It wasn't like Mr Pendragon wanted him to know. “A Mr du Lac came round.” Merlin thought even the name was fancy. “And 'e invited the master over.”

Instead of scolding Merlin for talking smack about Mr Pendragon, Alice said, “Oh dear.”

“May I ask what has elicited that exclamation, my dear?” Gaius strolled into the kitchen and kissed Alice's cheek. 

“Mr Pendragon's going to visit the du Lacs.” Alice took the pot off the hearth and rested it on the stove plate. 

“Oh, that was why Lancelot came calling then.” Gaius eyebrows climbed upwards. “I see.”

They sat around the long kitchen table. There was cabbage soup and leg of mutton for dinner. The food was plenty. The mutton alone was fat and juicy, and it smelled good, of spices and freshly chopped herbs. But Merlin couldn't bring himself to do more than shift his food about the plate, re-arranging it in patterns that resembled every day objects, a sickle, a mushroom, a tree. “What be the story between Mr Pendragon and Mr du Lac?”

Gaius' brow puckered reproachfully.

“What?” Merlin said.

“You'd better not ask about it, Merlin.”

Merlin knew that. His questions had after all met with sullen silence and a reprimand before. But that didn't mean he wasn't still groping for the truth, that he didn't wish he could have a feel for the people whose roof he lived under. Especially Mr Pendragon. He wanted to know about him. He was, after all, Merlin's employer. It was nothing but fair... “I was just that sad to see 'im so out of sorts.”

Alice and Gaius shared a look that was full of undercurrents Merlin didn't understand. At last Alice said, “We all are, Merlin. That's why we're not happy to see him go tonight. But there's nothing we can say, is there? We're only his servants, after all, and as much as we love him this is not for us to concern ourselves with.”

Being a servant, or a hired hand, didn't mean that you couldn't feel for your betters, that you couldn't try and help them, Merlin thought. “But why is 'e unhappy?” he asked, putting his fork down and with it all pretence he was interested in his dinner. “Ain't Mr du Lac his friend?”

“He was and is, Merlin,” Gaius said. “But friendships are sometimes sacrificed to other relationships.”

Merlin wasn't sure he got what Gaius meant at all. “I'm sorry but this don't make a lick of sense, Gaius.”

“What Gaius is trying to say,” Alice said, cutting through her mutton with care, “is that Mr Pendragon and Mr du Lac's friendship underwent some changes when Mr du Lac married Mr Pendragon's old sweetheart. Of course, no one's to blame... Mr Pendragon was gone for a long time. But still nobody can expect it not to affect him at all.”

“Oh.” That explained it. The stiffness, the awkwardness, the uneasiness. “I do get it now.”

“It's been such a blow to Mr Pendragon--” Alice sighed. “He was hardly himself for a while. But we thought he'd been doing better lately.”

“Indeed, Arthur was doing so well,” Gaius said. “Caring for the property, working the land, saving his inheritance. It was doing us good to see him recovering from his first shock.”

“Indeed.” Alice nodded at her husband's words. “And spending some time apart from the du Lacs seemed to be allowing him to forget, but alas, he's to go.”

“I suppose he would have had to at some point or another anayway,” Gaius said, spearing a leek and arching an eyebrow at it. “This is a little sooner than we expected, but perhaps it will be just as well. They were close, after all, and perhaps they can mend their friendship.”

“But tell me, Gaius,” Alice said, “what good will it do him, watching them in the first glow of happiness?”

Merlin's heart pinched more than a little at that. “Oh, now I'm more sorry than I was afore.”

“That does you credit, Merlin,” said Gaius, parting meat from bone with one deft stroke of his knife. “But we can't shield Mr Pendragon from life's trials. I'm afraid Mr Pendragon will have to deal with his sorrows as any man in his situation must.”

Though Merlin had never known any man die of love, Merlin wasn't so sure that Mr Pendragon was guaranteed to get over his disappointment. “Would have you been happy if someone else had went an' married Alice?”

Gaius put his hand on top of Alice's. “Indeed not. Indeed not.”

“But let's hope for Mr Pendragon that his case is a little different,” Alice said. “Maybe he'll meet a fine young lady at this dinner of the du Lacs' and fall for her. And if one thing leads to another, then by the time another invitation comes, he may well have forgotten about his first love and be married to his second.”

Merlin was about to tell Gaius and Alice he thought they were being mad, wishing Mr Pendragon would marry that quickly, when Mr Pendragon himself appeared. He was wearing a silk cutaway coat the colour of a meadow in winter. Fine trimming edged the collars, cuffs, and front of the coat. At the back, the garment was mitred, the pleats lined with twill and glazed worsted. The shirt he had underneath was whiter than snow and his boots shone like polished silver. He'd never looked finer than he did now.

Merlin bit the words off his tongue and went red.

Gaius and Alice made as if to rise.

Mr Pendragon stayed them with one hand, “I'm going out. Don't stay up for me and feel free to lock up at any time.”

“Yes, Arthur,” said Gaius. 

Alice said, “Have a good night, Arthur.”

Mr Pendragon turned around and vanished into the front room. Outside wheels rattled on gravel, then stopped screeching. Voices wafted over, a greeting, some instructions, then the wheels started their, crunching again, except this time the sound soon faded.

With Mr Pendragon off, Gaius Merlin and Alice went back to their dinner. When they were done, they settled around the fireplace with a glass of sweet wine, trading stories. Gaius told Merlin about his youth. He had been a barber and leech at the time, and not unskilled at his trade. He told Merlin about his old mentor, one Taliesin, who lived in Truro, and his legendary skills. Though Gaius had never witnessed it with his own eyes, Taliesin had been rumoured to have saved patients from the very brink of death. “A visionary he was, and very wise.” 

Next, Gaius described his first meeting with Alice. Alice chuckled at this, patted his hand, and recounted her version of events. Yes, it had been at a fair that they'd met, that much was correct, but Gaius had the rest wrong. She'd had a booth at that fair, well, her master had, and she'd been having a slow day of it, when Gaius entered, his cheek swollen like a squirrel gorging on nuts. He'd paid Alice a shilling to have his tooth pulled, but he could not gather the courage to have it done that day. It was only on his second visit, the morning after, that he submitted himself to having his tooth extracted. Gaius denied having being afraid of the pain and maintained that he'd only insisted on a second examination so he could see Alice again. “I had,” he said, “an eye for fair ladies in my youth.” 

Alice tutted and said, “Tell yourself that, old man, tell yourself that. You were quaking in your boots and that's God's honest truth.”

When the clock on the landing struck ten, Gaius got to his feet, made a round of the house to ensure everything was in order, and locked everything up. Once he was done, he and Alice retired for the night. “Sleep well, Merlin,” they both said at the same time.

With the candle reduced to a stub and only the howling wind for company, Merlin ought to have gone to bed too. But he wasn't of a mind to. He felt too restless by far and too wide awake. So he picked up the candle-holder and roamed the dark and empty house. 

As he glided about, the light showed him glimpses of the furniture, the contours of picture frames, the cracks between floorboards, and a swathe of stairwell. None of this was new; none of this clamoured for his attention. There was nothing that needed mending. He'd fixed the door to the morning room but last week and the window sash too. Nothing needed to be cleaned either. Alice saw to it and did it so well you could see your reflection shine on every surface. 

Still, Merlin wandered the house in search of something to do. The dark corners, the over-loud crack of his step, made him feel the lack of company. Since Mr Pendragon wasn't one for early hours, he'd normally be up at this time. Roundabout this hour Merlin would still be doing some fetching and carrying, or if Mr Pendragon was in the right mood, he'd sit by him and listen to him talk. He'd mostly discuss agriculture or his plans for Trevena's future. But Merlin liked that because if there was something he was good at that was tending the land. As for Trevena, he wanted to see it prosper. He'd put his heart into it: into preparing the land to take seed, into caring for the animals and making the house more hospitable. 

Ironically enough, it seemed that tonight he had nothing but the house for a distraction. More than a little aimlessly he went into the study, then exited it. He walked into the pantry and left. He'd only make a mess of Alice's arrangements anyway. Eventually, he entered the parlour and set the candle on the dresser. 

A circle of golden light reached around, showing him the by now familiar surroundings. 

Whistling low so as not to wake Gaius and Alice downstairs, Merlin sauntered over to the bookcase and picked up a book. He chose the one with the simplest cover and biggest lettering he could find and carried it over to the desk, at which he sat. He pulled the light closer to him and opened it to the first page. 

With a finger he traced the words and slowly tried to spell them out. He knew a few. His mother had tried teaching him, after all. She'd done it on cold mornings with the sun just up and the air so hazy it looked flimsy. Before they went to the fields, they would sit on her pallet with their blankets around them, her back to damp stained wall, Merlin in her lap. 

She'd read the words out to him slowly and clearly, her voice like a bell, and ask him to say them back. It was the best time of the day for such things, she'd said. Merlin's brain would be geared for a fresh start and they wouldn't be using up candles, she'd said. 

Merlin, in truth, had been too warm from his bed, too loath to abandon it to greet the day, and by far too sleepy to understand much. He'd been slow and still trapped in a world of dreams; fairies and dragons chasing each other up in the sky, tablefuls of food that was just for him, his father coming back and sitting him on his knee, saying, 'I'm sorry it took me so long, boy.' For all his sluggishness, Merlin had learned to recognise a few words on sight. Those were the ones he still remembered to this day and which he tried out now. 

But his efforts to make out the other ones, to sound them out and make them ring out to the the same cadence Mr Pendragon gave them, failed. One after the other. He frowned at the text, shifted the lamp about to see if that'd help, tried from the start again. But he had no idea of what he was reading, what the overall message was.

“What a great dobeck I be.”

He rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes. It had always been like this, hadn't it? Even when he'd gone to Sunday school. Perhaps that was because Merlin didn't attend often enough and sometimes skipped lessons entirely to go roam about, but Sunday school had mostly been about failure for Merlin. 

He hadn't been able to purchase the speller most of the better off farmer sons had, the one that smelled nice and had pictures on it of kings and beggars, the king with his huge crown tipped right at peak of his skull, the beggar with his rags and bare feet. He'd never managed to stand as straight or look as nicely put together as the other lads either. And, barring a few, his name among them, Merlin had never mastered the art of reading out loud. The vicar had used to shake his head at him and call him, “Simple.”

More of the same was happening now. There may be nobody to witness it, and certainly no Sunday school master, but here Merlin was, sizing up words too big for his mouth, all his attempts misfiring again and again until he had a mouthful of nothing, glass shards on the tongue. He flipped the book shut and stood. 

He went back downstairs and into the kitchen. He stuck the end of a paper cutting in the fireplace, lit it, unscrewed the lantern, trimmed away the burned wick, and lit it with the paper end. The lamp cast his shadow on the wall and made a phantasmagoria out of ordinary objects. 

The chair's shadow was twice the size of the original item, its legs elongated like the the ones of a tall stork. Those of the herbs hanging from the rafters shivered around the edges and danced a dance of their own. The bulk of kitchen tools looked like nothing else than big coal lumps. 

With the oil lamp held up high, Merlin lifted a hearth brick and took the small key from under it. 

He worked it in the lock, opened the door, then closed it carefully behind him. Pocketing the key, he set off at a good pace and took the road that led towards Trevena Cove. 

The countryside at night was full of strange noises and odd shapes. Their wings flapping as they hopped on branches, owls hooted. Mating foxes called out to each other. Grass shivered in the wind. 

By night the topography of the land had changed almost entirely too. The cliffs were dark smears upon blue velvet. Trees were like skeletal arms waving in the breeze. Paths and roads and fields fused together in a thick blur. 

As the moon peeked out in and out a blanket of clouds, shadows danced across the valley and objects came in and out of focus. Merlin knew his way though. He proceeded southwards and headed down the path to the cove.

He turned right along the beach, scrambling over wet rocks and sea-weed, passing over sand dunes mixed with shingle until there was nowhere else to go, the cliff wall closing the sandy track off. 

Waves crashed on the shoreline in whispers and thundering volleys. Lights shone out at sea, little pinpricks like stars. 

Merlin inhaled, listened to the rustle of the sea, and enjoyed the rain of fine sea spray on his face. 

He stood there for an eternity, or so it seemed to him, wondering if ships were fending the sea out there in the dark, just beyond the horizon line. He pictured voyages and adventures like the ones old Kilgey used to tell him about and landscapes as unlike the one he was now seeing as night to day.

In his mind's eye, he saw trees crowned with red and cities cast in marble, snow capped mountains and sand dunes that extended for miles. He wondered if any place on earth really looked like it did in Kilgey's strange tales and, by way of them, in Merlin's imaginings.

With the force of the sea increasing and smashing white foam into the air, Merlin backed away from the shoreline and made for higher ground. He was in between the beach and a line-up of caves, when his lantern swung sideways and cast light upon a crate. 

It was wide and large, of the kind used in shipments, tar lettering marking one side. Upon sight of it Merlin thought it must be the product of some kind of wreckage. It was only summer, true, but many a ship had been known to sink in these parts. The seas were treacherous around here. Kilgey had said that. Everyone in a hundred mile radius would agree.

In a bid to establish whether a ship had really foundered, he shone his light upon the sand but saw nothing that could testify to a shipwreck. No keel parts lay on strewn on the beach and no strips of canvas did either. He could see no staves, no shreds of rigging, no broken casks. When Merlin lay his palm on the top most part of the crate he found it was dry.

Not from a shipwreck then.

Merlin put the lantern down, looked around, and found a sodden branch resting among the sand. He stripped it of the remaining foliage and used it to lever the lid upwards. 

He'd nearly pried it off, when there was a crack on the back of his head and pain shot hot from his skull to his hairline. At the same time his eyes filled with tears and his breath stopped right at the base of his lungs.

Someone took hold of his arms and started dragging him backwards. Head pounding, vision dimming, Merlin couldn't fight free of the hold. Nausea washing over him like a dank tide, he slipped into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dobeck is Cornish for stupid


	10. A Small Hours Confrontation

The carriage rolled dully along the country road. Despite being well-sprung, it jostled and bumped over the ruts in the ground, the crevices between cobbles, the twists of the trail, its axle squeaking whenever the vehicle went over a hole. As it slowed in preparation for a turn, Arthur pulled the curtain aside and peered outside. The coachman's lantern shone on a pair of open gates and a broad tree-lined avenue, beautiful trees stretching their evergreen branches either side of the driveway, framing the house, a Tudor manor with two side wings and a central body lined up with the path, between their twisted limbs.

Lights shone behind the windows, shadows flitting across them as people moved about in the rooms at the front. Servants bustled at one of the side entrances, dark silhouettes pitted against the glow of the back rooms. Grooms in tall boots toed and froed from the stables with saddles slung over their backs, chatting and laughing amongst themselves.

To the screech of wheels, the coach stopped and a liveried footman dashed forwards to let the steps down. Once they were in place, the servant opened the door and bowed low. Another footman, a younger one, his face scraped raw by too close a shave, ushered Arthur into the hall. 

The notes of a lively piano tune carried on the air from a nearby room, impregnating the air, echoing across the sturdy wooden rafters of the mansion, along the walkway that topped the stairs, and wafting down to Arthur's position, lulling his senses.

These notes mixed with the sounds of chatter and laughter, the noises of a crowd.

Unable to come to process the situation, Arthur paused a moment, and drowned his sense of displacement in the taking in of his surroundings.

The wooden staircase facing him was festooned with garlands dotted by clusters of white camellias, daisies and lilies of the valley. These, Arthur knew, were Guinevere's favourite flowers. She had used to work them in her hair and made of their pressed, dried leaves bookmarks. There were other displays of Gwen's taste in the choice of trimmings and colour scheme, pale yellows and creams and pinks. Her thoughtfulness was on display by way of other gestures as well. On either side of the hall, rooms were open for refreshments, so guests could choose when to partake in them. Servants flitted about, carrying trays, replacing the empty ones, but they did so as if it was a task they loved doing.

“Your cloak, sir,” a footman urged him with some not so subtle clearing of his throat.

Arthur relinquished it together with his gloves and followed the music. By dint of doing so he found himself into a rectangular room at the end of which stood a piano. Her fingers flying across the keyboard, Miss Vivian Corney was coaxing a gentle melody out of it, her voice threading through it at a perfect pitch, while a blonde young lady who much resembled her turned the music for her. 

A crowd had gathered round the instument and Arthur recognised a few familiar faces; Reverend Sagramore with spectacles plunging all the way to the tip of his nose; Mr Andrew Lamorak, who was tapping his feet along with the music; and Mr Rosewarne sipping at a glass of wine. 

Guinevere was nodding her head in time with the music, the tilt of her lips hinting at a smile, a private one that suffused her whole countenance. Her eyes shone bright, full of some kind of muted joy Arthur felt was almost palpable, an entity that was part of her, an expression of her soul. There were no lines on her face, no worry creases, and no frowns marred her brow. These absences were just as telling, Arthur thought, as the presence of motion, as the flitting variations of expression. She wasn't doing anything conspicuous. There was a spareness of movement about her that spoke of grace, but even so she appeared clearly at ease with her surroundings and at one with her guests. From time to time she whispered a gentle word to one; inclined her head at another, nothing she did deflecting attention from the performer.

When she caught his eye, Arthur made his way to her amid the milling crowd. His legs carried him even if he wasn't sure his heart was, or what its feelings were anymore.

Before Arthur could make up his mind either way, Lancelot saw him too. He put his glass down on the piano lid and bounded over to Arthur. “Arthur!” he said, reeling him in for a swift embrace and clapping him soundly on the back. “I'm so overjoyed to see you.”

“I told you I'd come,” Arthur said, stepping back from the embrace. “I don't usually renege my promises.”

“No, of course not.” Lancelot backed a few steps. “But I feared something would keep you and I'm indeed glad to find my fears were baseless.”

Seeing them engaged in conversation, Guinevere murmured to him, “Later.”

Arthur nodded once, then turned back to Lancelot. “So... the new house is quite grand.”

Lancelot bowed his head, some colour rising on his cheeks. “I'm afraid I overdid it. I wanted to get Guinevere something special, something worthy of her. And when I saw this house... I thought it was just perfect for her.”

“The sentiment does you great credit, Lancelot.” Arthur wouldn't allow himself to wound Lancelot when he was trying his best to keep their friendship alive. It was a matter of honour with him. “And I don't see any wrong in it since you can clearly afford it.”

The heightened trace of colour didn't leave Lancelot's features. “I can't complain since at the moment my prospects look good enough.” He engaged Arthur's gaze. “But yours seem to be looking up too. I saw what you're doing with Trevena.”

“About that,” Arthur said, thinking he might as well mention it. “I have some news and I would like to ask your advice about it.”

Lancelot herded him back towards the refreshment table. “Do tell, please.”

Arthur accepted the wine glass Lancelot offered him. “Do you remember the old mine on my property?”

“Wheal Ygraine, you mean?” Lancelot frowned. “Yes, I do remember it now that you mention it. “ He smiled. “What I remember most of all is your father's imperative order not to play around it.”

Arthur recalled that too. His father could be quite frightening when he meant it and he did really make it a point of keeping them out of the mine. “Yes, yes he did. He probably knew how unruly we were.” He and Lancelot had ran wild in those years, exploring the district and going on adventures that lasted longer than the day was long. “And he was wise, for the mine is not particularly safe. Something Merlin didn't care a jot about, evidently.” Merlin had been so crazy wandering alone down there, with none the wiser as to his whereabouts. Though he owed him, Arthur still couldn't fathom what had moved him to act in the way he had. “But as it happens that wasn't an entirely fruitless sortie because he found a vein. Silver. And I saw it too.”

“Wait,” Lancelot said, making wide eyes at him. “Are you telling me that your farmhand...”

“I'm saying that Merlin, the scapegrace, stumbled into a load of silver.” Arthur couldn't help but smile. By all rights he should have censured Merlin's action for the thoughtlessness and rashness involved in it. But he found he couldn't quite. “And he says there's copper too.”

“And you believe him?” Lancelot cocked his head to the side.

“Merlin's not a liar.” True, Merlin was sometime secretive and oftentimes injudicious, sometimes still indulging in his street urchin posturing, but Arthur had never caught him lying. “And he has a keen eye. If he says there's copper, then there's copper.”

“What do you intend to do about it then?”

“I'll have to think about it,” Arthur said, not wanting to entertain any hope before he'd spoken with some true experts, “and find out what the costs will be, but in case the venture is finanically feasible, I mean to re-open the mine.”

“But that's splendid,” said Lancelot, patting him on the arm. “That could translate to a substantial increase in your fortunes.”

“Yes, but I don't have all the funds to support such a scheme entirely by myself.” Arthur had gone over the sums multiple time. Even if the crops sold well – which was out of the question this year with out late they'd sown them– he wouldn't have enough to start works on the mine. “And I don't want to mortgage the house.”

Lancelot nodded. “I understand. Have you considered a joint venture? Maybe someone will be interested in investing in your mine as long as they receive some return from the profits?”

“That was what the conclusion I'd come to as well.” In many ways Lancelot and he still thought along the same lines. “It's the only solution beside trusting a banker. Which I don't. I still haven't decided who'd do as an investor though.”

“I'd contribute myself, but I'm fresh off pouring money into this house,” Lancelot said, arranging his mouth in a twist. “But perhaps I can put in a good word with Andrew Lamorak? He's got some disposable income and enough entrepreneurial sense to want to try out a new venture.”

“I wouldn't want to presume on your kindness,” Arthur said, not wanting to owe Lancelot so much, fearing it would be morally wrong cosidering the feelings he'd but lately entertained for him.

“Arthur, please.” Lancelot gestured the passing Andrew Lamorak over. “Let me do something, anything.”

Lamorak came over. “I understand that my presence is required?”

“If you'll be so kind,” Lancelot said. “I believe Arthur may have a proposition for you.”

“Indeed.” Lamorak tipped his head to what side. “What kind?”

“Investments,” said Arthur, trying to gauge Lamorak's level of interest. “In local mines.”

There was a light shift in Lamorak's appearance. His head went up and a glint of interest appeared in his eyes. “Tell me more.”

Lancelot placed a hand on each of their shoulders and said, “I'll have to return to my guests, but I trust you'll find you have a lot to discuss.”

While the music played in the background, Arthur told Lamorak about the mine and his plans concerning its future. Lamorak seemed keen from the get go, asking questions about mining in general, the copper and silver trade, and Arthur's experience in the field. Arthur was open about it all, confessing he hadn't tried mining before, but promising that he knew his fair share about it, because it had been his family's business for centuries. He felt, he said, that with a good financial head start and honest labour, they could go quite far. “And in the long run, it wouldn't only benefit me, but the district too. That mine could give jobs to many.”

“I can't say I'm not interested,” Lamorak said, rubbing his chin. “On the contrary. How about I visit this mine of yours and tell you then whether I'm in?”

“I couldn't imagine a fairer offer.” As much as he wanted to keep his optimism in check, Arthur couldn't help but feel hopeful about this mine business. Maybe they could really re-open it. Perhaps Arthur's prospects weren't as dire as he'd expected them to be shortly after his return and perhaps Arthur could still do some good for the county. “I'll be happy to show you round Wheal Ygraine.”

Arthur and Lamorak shook hands over their agreement, then both celebrated with a second glass of wine and some food. They were still at it, when the music stopped playing. Arthur and Lamorak both turned in the direction of the piano.

Miss Corney was saying, “It's your turn now, Elena. You know Papa wants you to play.”

“But I can't do it well,” Miss Elena said, making an appalled face at the instrument. “You're the one who's beautiful and musical and has all the social graces.”

“That is true, my dear, but my fingers ache.” Miss Corney waved the tips of her fingers at Miss Elena. “Now do take my place.” She yanked Miss Elena close by the elbow. “Chop, chop Elena.”

“But, I don't even know what to play!”

Miss Corney rose from the bench and yanked Miss Elena down on it. “There's enough sheet music to entertain people for hours.”

“Will you turn the pages for me?” Miss Elena asked, looking wide eyed at the instrument.

“No. That's too boring.” Miss Corney danced away from the piano. “I shall mingle now.”

As Miss Elena started hammering on the piano, Miss Corney steamed over to Arthur. “Mr Pendragon,” she said, hip-shoving Lamorak aside. “It's been a while since we last had the pleasure of your company.”

“Miss Corney,” Arthur said, with an inclination of the head, “I'm afraid I've been busy at Trevena.”

She hooked her arm through his. “Do tell me, please. I've always found rural affairs quite fascinating.”

Lamorak made a face at him, emptied the glass in his mouth, and said, “I see Reverend Sagramore over there. We have, um, matters of divinity to discuss.” He bowed to Arthur and Miss Corney. “If you'll excuse me.”

Arthur had an awful feeling he knew why Lamorak was waltzing off and was seized by an urge to call him back. However, he was also aware of how rude that would be towards Miss Corney, so he said nothing.

As Lamorak retreated, Miss Corney tugged on Arthur's arm and dragged him around on a tour of the room. “Don't you think that Mrs du Lac looks lovely in her new gown? It's from Paris, of course. I noticed immediately. I'm somewhat of a fashion expert, you see. A lady ought to be.” She leant in and whispered, “Though of course it's not so much the gown itself that's lent her her glow as matrimony. It suits her admirably. It's like the institution was made for her. I wager she's a loyal and devoted wife. I'll even go as far as to say she was born to be sweet Mr du Lac's bride, don't you agree?”

Arthur should have baulked. He should have felt the full weight of the blow, but he didn't. Perhaps the alcohol he'd drunk had dulled him to it or perhaps hope for Trevena had. But he didn't feel himself teetering on the edge of some lonely abyss; he didn't feel any desire to cut himself off of all company and contemplate his wounds. Granted, he was aware that all this could have been his. Not the house as such, of course, for he couldn't have afforded it, but the rest. Companionship, mutual bonds, a love that was meant to last. The prospect of a bright future, of a family. Yet, he supposed he could live with the lack of these things, the shifting of what he'd thought of as his goals. “Yes, yes, I find that I do.”

She smiled, titled her chin up and led him to the refreshment table. “Some Madeira?”

Arthur thanked her but refused the offer. “I'm afraid I've already had two glasses. I'd rather court sobriety tonight.”

“Oh that's so wise of you, Mr Pendragon,” Vivian said, her lashes fanning briefly downwards. “One can see that you're such an upright gentleman, a man of tact and honour, full of forethought and perspicuity.” 

“You flatter me,” Arthur said, somewhat too flatly for polite conversation, he realised.

“Oh no.” She shook her head. “I swear I'm only talking the truth, Mr Pendragon. I do feel you are all those things. You are the perfect gentleman.”

“I hope I know how to behave in a gentlemanly fashion,” Arthur said. “But I fall rather short of perfection.”

Miss Corney poured herself a glass of wine. “Now that is not true. You are the essence of good breeding. But then again some things come naturally to men of good birth such as yourself.”

Arthur hoped that wasn't true. That birth had nothing whatsoever to do with gentlemanliness. “I know good people whose hearts are true and they have no social standing.”

Miss Corney's eyes flared a fraction and air whistled through her mouth. “I see. That's quite an unusual stance to take, very... liberal, very foreign.” 

“I was raised to think as you do,” Arthur said, quirking his mouth in a show of private mirth at the thought of his father agreeing with young Miss Corney, “but I'm getting daily proof of the contrary.”

"I see." Miss Corney's brow knit and her mouth pursed. She looked away, took a sip, letting the latest strand of their conversation wither and die. Then, à propos nothing, she said, "Half of the guests will be staying the night. Are you planning to as well?”

“No.” While Arthur didn't think the party was the test of his character he'd believed it'd be, he found himself wishing he could be home. Right now Gaius and Alice would be closing up the house for the night and Merlin... Merlin'd likely be wandering it in search of something to do. He was always restless that boy. “They du Lacs' coachman will be driving me back.”

“That's such upsetting news, Mr Pendragon,” Vivian said, mouth rounded in distaste. “My family is staying and let me tell you your absence leaves me in fear. There's been talk of smugglers raids and I'm not easy in my mind, not without you there to protect me.” She laid her hand on his arm. “Smugglers are such odious creatures.”

Before Miss Corney could ramble further on the subject, Arthur screwed his eyebrows up and said, “Raids?”

“Yes, haven't you heard?” Vivian whispered over loudly. “They're overriding the county and the militia won't be here for two more weeks at least. My father went to the magistrate but he said no troops could be deployed until then. It's a disaster.”

“Disaster?” Arthur stepped back and chuckled. “I hardly think they make a habit of attacking inhabited, easily defended houses such as this one. They rather haunt coves and beaches, dilapidated lighthouses. You have absolutely nothing to fear here.”

“And yet, Mr Pendragon, one might never know with these criminals,” Miss Corney said, brushing her shoulder against his. “I'd feel much safer if you were to stay:”

Arthur said, “I'm sure Lancelot will ensure the safety of all his guests.”

“But wouldn't he think of his wife first?” Miss Corney tilted an eyebrow. “I think he would, as it's all but natural. In which case who'd think of me?”

Arthur coughed into his fist. “Alas, I have obligations at home.”

Miss Corney had just broken into a pout, when she was interrupted by Miss Elena. “Vivian, I played all the songs I knew. Miss du Lac has taken over.” 

Arthur ought to have noticed the change in players. The tune, a wistful ballad, was being executed with a delicacy of touch, a perfect instinct for rhythm, that was completely foreign to Miss Elena. 

“Well, that means that everything's all right, doesn't it?” Miss Corney scowled at her sister. “So I don't see why you're interrupting my conversation with Mr Pendragon. It's rude, Elena, and not something polite young ladies do.” 

“Oh.” Elena's face buckled. “I'm awfully sorry, Viv.” She scuffed at the floor with her shoe. Then, as if she'd only just remembered, she added, “But I thought Father wanted you to entertains us all, so that everybody could tell just how gifted you are?”

“Well,” Vivian said, her brow knitting, “he did mention something of the kind.”

“And now Mrs du Lac is playing,” Miss Elena said, angling her body so they could see Guinevere at the piano.

Miss Corney craned her neck to look at the people collected by the instrument, the gentlemen marking the rhythm with their feet, the ladies with their fans. “I can see what you mean. Her playing is quite lovely but not quite masterful enough, is it.”

Miss Elena made a rather strangled noise.

“I should go play the next piece,” said Miss Corney, pushing her half-drunk glass into Miss Elena's hands. “If you'll excuse me.”

After Miss Corney had stomped her way to the piano, Miss Elena said, “I apologise for my sister. I know how she can be.” She made big eyes at Arthur. “But it's not her fault. It's father's. My step-father, that is. We're both unmarried and he wants us to be. For some reason he's afraid that we won't find the right suitor, the kind he has an eye on. So he's instructed us, Vivian in particular, to do everything in our power to secure that end. This means, of course, that Vivian is quite keen. But, see, she's only that way because she loves our father very much.”

Arthur smiled. “I do understand, wholly.”

“You do!” Miss Elena beamed at him. “And you're not cross with Viv?”

Arthur smiled. “I assure you I'm not.” 

Miss Elena shook his hand, pumping it up and down so energetically Arthur almost feared his arm would be knocked out of joint. “Thank you for being so kind, thank you.”

Once Elena had rejoined the piano crowd, Arthur sought out Guinevere again, but she was at the centre of a cluster of ladies, talking animatedly, so short of barging in on their exchange, Arthur couldn't go and engage her in conversation. At loose ends, he wandered over to other groups, traded a few words here and there, listened to more music. Thus the hours passed.

When the crowd of guests began to thin, Arthur retreated into the hall. A valet brought him his cloak while a footman herded him towards the door. Before he could quite clear it, Guinevere came up to him. “I'm sorry I couldn't talk to you.”

“You had to see to your hostess duties,” Arthur said, preparing for a pang of the heart that didn't come, or at least not in the shape he'd thought it would. “I understand.”

“You have to go, haven't you?”

“Yes.” Arthur shifted his weight. “I do.”

“I'll come visit,” she said, her palm glancing across his hand. “We'll catch up.”

“Good night, Guinevere.” Arthur leant down and kissed her cheek.

When Arthur left Dower Manor that night, the moon was high up in the sky, shining silver and bright, a perfect quarter that seemed to have been carved out with a knife. To the rattle of wheels, the carriage crossed barren areas and wind-swept stretches of moor. It cut across empty roads and cranked along narrower paths bordering meadows that looked uniformly grey in the dark. It slowed when they started on the winding, rutted cliff road, and gathered more speed once the conveyance had swept eastwards, towards the interior and Trevena house. When Arthur saw the fences enclosing his home fields, he asked the coachman to drop him there. The man advised against it, because it was very late, and possibly dangerous, but Arthur insisted, so he got off at the old turnstile.

The balmy night air deep in his lungs, Arthur walked up the road leading to Trevena. In the dark of night all shapes had soft edges. Trees clustered together in blurry huddles. Stones appeared smudged to roundness. The boundaries between fields were nothing but thin lines disappearing into nothingness.

At a brisk pace, he rounded bends in the road, climbed up higher, getting farther and father away from the sea level. From time to time he stopped to get his breath back and gaze at the stars, taking in the beauty of the night, the familiar shapes he'd once known so well and that were etching themselves on his memory anew. He studied the changes in the lay of the land, those in the form of man-made buildings, the distortions that the late hour wrought upon them, making both appear emptier and more vast. He appreciated being able to do this. 

When he'd been on the ship taking him to England, he'd often sat on deck at night, picturing his home. Beside a few fuzzy details, he hadn't been able to, not really. The spirit of the place had eluded him, the real, solid look of things, the taste of the air, the way light and darkness played on the vistas, on the eye. He'd only been able to see what was ahead of him instead, vast expanses of grey water frothed with white, the polished wood of the deck, always slick with dirt and grease, the length of the mast looming high, sails in full trim. Now he had it all back within reach.

The sense of belonging warmed his belly and washed his blood clean. It was not a bad feeling. It was actually quite bracing, invigorating, a lashing of life to mind and sinews. Heartened, he reprised his homebound hike. 

He was almost within sight of Trevena house, when he saw a figure stumble out of the darkness and make a beeline for him.

Arthur had no weapon to defend himself with. He had no walking stick and no farm tools. If the person shambling like a drunkard towards him attacked, he would have to use his bare hands. It was lucky that the man veering towards him didn't seem bulky at all, but rather lean and spare. Arthur could tackle him easily. If he had any luck, he wouldn't even need to. Perhaps the man was only a hungry vagrant, moving from place to place on the lookout for shelter. Going by his teetering gate there was a chance he was so out of it, he would pose little threat. Still, if war had taught Arthur anything, it was how to be cautious. Keeping the man in his sights, Arthur went to his haunches and picked up a few stones, which he enclosed in his palm. So armed, he stood with his feet wide apart, bracing for a fight. 

The man continued on his path towards Arthur.

By then Arthur's neck muscles had bunched like so many ropes fitting around a knot and a chill had raced from his head to his fingertips. 

Arthur had just angled himself so he would offer a smaller front, when the clouds overhead parted and showed him the face of the man making for him. 

It was Merlin, his hair up in wild tufts, his lips as bloodless as his face was. His features were crossed with lines of pain, which he kept rearranging them in a geography of grimaces. “Arthur,” he said, his voice rough, his walk no more than an unsteady shuffle. 

Arthur's bones almost gave at the sight. He rushed towards Merlin and when he got to him he ran his hands all over his body. “Merlin, what happened to you?” he said, probing his skull for breaks. “God, Merlin, what...”

“Ow, that do hurt,” Merlin said, turning sharply away from him.

The whiff of rum that hit Arthur's nostrils was unmistakable. Merlin was drenched in it. The smell came off his clothes and off his hair, off his very skin. “You're drunk,” Arthur said, stepping back, his mouth becoming a hard line. “You went out and got hammered!”

“No,” Merlin said, waving his hands about in as uncoordinated a fashion as Arthur had ever seen. “I'm not. I do swear upon all that is holy.”

“Merlin,” Arthur said, “I can forgive a youthful error--” Merlin had probably gone off and got soused while in pursuit of some girl. Or maybe he'd found a tavern and been gullible enough to let the hostler get in charge of both his tankard and tab. He could understand that. He'd been young too. While disappointment did taste bitter on his tongue, he could move past that. “But what I won't countenance is lying.”

Merlin's eyes got as wide as saucers. “I be not lyin', I do swear!”

“Then how come you're out in the dead of night when you ought to be sleeping?” Arthur didn't want to point this out. He didn't want to be logical. He only needed for Merlin to apologise, so they could be done with this escapade and move past it, go back to their routines. “How come you reek of rum when there's none in the house?”

“I don't know!” Merlin looked wan, his eyes flaring and bloodshot, his lips cracking. “I don't-- I didn't drink. I didn't touch no drop. I swear to ye. I would never be lyin' to ee. Not to ee. Please, please, believe me.”

Arthur wanted to. Merlin's words and pleading tone were like a hammer blow to Arthur's heart. They stopped it right in its tracks, where it sat like a stone. But Arthur couldn't ignore the evidence of his own eyes just because Merlin's pleading moved him. He couldn't let himself overlook this. He couldn't allow himself to be so unguarded and gullible, because if he did, he'd never stop making exceptions for Merlin, he'd never learn where to draw the line with him. “And yet you'll admit you were at large without permission.”

Merlin flinched. “I didn't know I was a prisoner of the 'ouse! I was just went a-walking.”

“And during your promenade you feel into a vat of rum!” Arthur scoffed.

“No!” Merlin turned around, stomped, and his face fell. “I swear to God, 'tis no lie! Please, you have to believe me!”

Arthur wished Merlin wouldn't look and sound so distraught, because he wanted to assuage that, make it go away, and that, given the circumstances, was the last thing he should do. There was a chance Merlin was playing him. “Then explain the rum; explain your state.”

“I-- I don't rightly know.” Merlin's shoulders sloped, but he kept on gesturing. “I went out. I went to the beach, for the weather was holdin' an' it be the last of Summer and one should enjoy it, as long as it lasts." He took a gulping breath. "’Tis no more’n I’ve done many and many a time before. Nothin' different.” Words bubbled from his lips in a fast torrent of sharp consonants and breathy vowels. “Besides, there were nothing to do in the 'ouse and I was alone. So I was gone awhile. I weren’t doing no ’arm and I didn’t mean to get back so late.”

But for the evident proof to the contrary, Arthur would have believed that. “Then clear up why you reek like the worst sort of ale house!”

“I didn't touch no drop. I ain't drunk!” Merlin raked both hands through his hair. He winced, lines bracketing his mouth and eyes. His hands came away bloody. “See, I didn't do this to meself!”

The emergence of some manner of proof caused hope to pierce Arthur to the marrow. He grabbed Merlin's hand, studied his palm. The blood was dark in the half light of night, but not clotting yet, fresh off a wound. Some of it had flaked under Merlin's nails and some had smeared his palm. He scraped some of it off, so it stained his own fingers. “Just tell me what happened, Merlin. How am I to judge without all the facts?”

“I don't know em.” A cluster of lines formed on Merlin's brow. “I went to the beach an' saw this crate. It was dry, that I do know. It was mighty strange so I checked. And then my skull rang like it was the 'our of judgement, and then... and then nothing.”

“A crate? On the beach?” Arthur tried to think of the reasons why one would be there. The only one that occurred to him was a prospect that seemed rather dire. Still, it was something to cling to, a verifiable fact. “All right, show it to me.”

They went to the house and procured lanterns. While Merlin was busy sticking a match inside the glass globe of his, Arthur slipped a knife into his boot. Together, they negotiated the path to the beach, half stumbling down a rocky slope. In the dark, there was little to be seen aside from the objects the orange glow of the lantern disclosed. Of human traffic there was no trace. Their breath coming fast, they picked their way down the cliff path, slipping at times, raising dust, loose rocks going tumbling after them. 

At last the smell of the sea hit Arthur's nostrils and his boots sank on sand. 

Shining the lantern around, Merlin led the way. He shuffled across the sand, his pace still somewhat thrown, checking his course from time to time. At last he came to a halt. “It were here.” He looked forlornly around. “I swear on my mother's honour that it were here.”

The light from the lantern cast a dim circle on dune slacks resembling a sea of waves. 

“There's nothing here, Merlin.” Confronted with the proof that Merlin had been lying to him, Arthur's heart punched at his ribcage. “Nothing but sand.”

“I didn't make it all up!” Merlin said, staring at the spot in front of him with a baffled air. “The crate were right here.” He kicked at the sand, made air gestures at it. “An' I tried to open it. I was succeeding too, but then I were knocked out cold.”

“Deceit ill becomes you, Merlin.” Cold scuttled into Arthur's guts; his jaw clenched till his whole face hurt. “Do not try my patience further.”

Tears filled Merlin's eyes, a thick veil of them that rimmed his eyes red and made his lids swell. They beaded upon his thick lashes in droves until he had to forcibly knuckle them away. He sniffed, tipped his head back as if against a nosebleed, then smeared more tears away with his blood stained palms. “I would never lie to 'ee,” he said in a husky voice. “Not to ee.” He gave out one low sob that seemed to come deep from his throat. “Not just because ye gave me a job, but because ye was kind to me. And ye didn't need to. I respect that.” Merlin sucked in a big breath and his whole tone changed when he added slow and measured, “I respect you.”

Every single shreds of righteous indignation Arthur had felt at having been lied to dissolved. He tried to reason, to talk himself into anger, a response more similar to his initial one, but it wouldn't come. He gagged to find his throat dry, his voice more so. “I'll have no more of it.”

“Arthur--”

“No.” Arthur held his palm up so as to stay Merlin from saying more. “Your tale makes no sense.” He made himself breathe. He wanted to sound coherent, as if this whole exchange wasn't working a chill into his skin, a groundlessness into his body that made his legs feel weak. “I can accept you making a mistake. But I don't want to hear a word more from you on the subject of the crate.” Because those would be more lies, wouldn't they? “Is that understood, Merlin?”

Merlin looked at him, his head up, his shoulders back. “I didn't lie.”

Arthur sighed, quite tired of reiterating the same thing again and again. “Explain the rum smell then!”

“Explain the wound then!”

Arthur could reason it away in more ways than one. “You probably just got so drunk and addled you fell and knocked yourself out.”

“It didn't go like that!” Merlin said. “Someone hit me.”

“Why would they?” If a crate had been there, then Arthur could have had reason to think someone had really bludgeoned Merlin to secure its contents. But there was no crate around. “Give me a reason!”

“I can't think of none!” Merlin said, frowning hard. “Maybe it was smugglers.”

Arthur sighed and his shoulders sloped. “Those aren't easy types, Merlin. If you'd so much as interrupted one in their dealings, they would have killed you.” A witness who could testify to their being in the area would surely have represented a danger that would have been dealt with the moment it arose. “Without hesitation.” And, aside from a hit to the head, Merlin was finely, splendidly hale, thank God. “And yet here you are are...”

“I don't know why that happened,” Merlin said, pressing his open palms against his temple. “I don't understand it. I don't. But ye have to know I'm telling the truth!” 

Merlin looked honest. He looked like the most honest person Arthur had ever met. There was something raw and earnest about him that moved Arthur in ways that, in view of the circumstances, made no sense. Yet they felt real, with a weight to them that resonated deep within Arthur, like a cord vibrating and producing a sound that was pitch perfect. While rationally Arthur knew this was nonsense and that his rebuke of Merlin was valid, speaking it wrung him inside out. He swallowed, ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, failed to make it any less dry. “I don't want to have to send you away, but that's what I'll have to do if you persist with your wild tales.”

Merlin flinched; his pupils snapped wide. “I told no wild tales, please.”

“Enough, Merlin!” The words burst out of Arthur like thunder. He hadn't meant to make them sound so furious nor to cause Merlin to recoil, but so he had. “I don't want to hear any more lies.” They were shredding Arthur's insides just as surely as sharp claws would. “You've been a good farmhand. Hard working. Loyal. I don't want to have to turn you out.” He let that sink in. “But if you mention this subject again, this is it, Merlin. You lose your job.”

Merlin staggered backwards, as if someone had shoved him. The little colour he still had on his face drained away, his nostrils pinched and his eyes got lined. His mouth opened several times, but he said not a word.

Arthur hoped with everything he had that Merlin would keep silent, that he wouldn't force his hand. 

Thankfully, he only heard the sound of the waves crashing against the shore and not a peep from Merlin.

When he re-opened his eyes, Arthur observed Merlin, studied him with a keenness he thought depended on his desire to warn Merlin off doing anything stupid, senseless. Merlin seemed to have got Arthur's meaning for he held himself in check. He had hung his head. His hair sat awry, stiff with the sea air and matted with blood. His hands were up in fists but though it looked as if his body was subject to a fine shake he didn't say anything.

The sight of him twisted the strings of Arthur's heart in knots he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to sort apart. He went over what he'd said, what he'd done. Nothing about it seemed morally wrong to him. Merlin had been feeding him nothing but fibs and Arthur didn't see how he could have responded in any other way than the one he had. And yet, and yet.

Arthur looked up. “It won't be long before the sun is up. We'd better get back.”

The traipse to the house was steeped in silence.


	11. A Visit at Trevena

The sun shone on the lawn and park. The air was heavy with the last of the summer sun, radiant with it, to the point it dazzled the eye. Light baked the driveway and gardens and slanted across the window, flooding the room in swathes of cinnamon and honey. It brightened everything till every small object gleamed with a patina of its own, a golden glamour that made everything appear enchanted, even the dust motes dancing on a sun beam.

When Gwen put down her sewing, it was to see Sefa dusting the array of objects on the mantel. She was singing under her breath, a melody that was all but hushed, though close enough to a reel Gwen had heard many times as a child. She was wiping at the base of a ceramic statuette, an en pointe dancer in peasant garb, when Gwen said, “Fetch me my things, Sefa. I'll be going out.”

“Madam?” Sefa said, startled into dropping her rag, which she quickly picked back up. “I beg your pardon, ma'am?”

“It's a lovely day out,” Gwen said, looking out the window and at the orderly by-ways that meandered off the lawn. “It's a pity to stay indoors. Tell the coachman he's needed.”

“Madam.” Sefa curtsied, stuck her stained rag in one of her pockets, and left the room.

Before long Gwen was sitting in the carriage with the curtains pulled back so she could see the sea sparkle against the lowering sun and take in the shape of the cliffs as they stretched eastwards and westwards, their faces rugged with bores and coruscations, just as they were coloured with multiple streaks of ochre, russet and white. 

The house at Trevena was much the same and entirely different from what it had once been. Its general lay out was unaltered, but the roof had been re-thatched, the façade cleaned and tuck-pointed, and the window frames replaced with new ones. The flowerbeds either side of the door had new borders and hummocks of hardy flowers pushed up through lush newly-turned soil, filling the air with their sweet scent.

Once the carriage steps were let down, Gwen took a moment to examine her surroundings. The house loomed in front of her white and quiet, smoke issuing from the chimney stack. The yard was crowded with wheelbarrows laden with wheat stubble and farming implements lying scattered about. They were propped against various surfaces, stacked either vertically or horizontally, sometimes just plain abandoned. Piles of timber covered by canvas lay by the barn in pyramids the top of which was narrower than the base.

Signs of animal life were also in evidence. Ducks crossed in front of her, a lone fourth trailing behind, while a nag chomped on the feed contained in the bucket. 

A man – young, dark haired, shirtless – was working on the stable's roof, taking down the old planks and installing new ones. His back was bent, the notches in his spine showing as he moved.

Aware that she shouldn't stare, Gwen looked away, walked past the coachman, and knocked on the door to the main house.

Alice opened, her hair greyer than she remembered it, flour on her face in random sprinklings. “Yes?”

“I—um--” Gwen's gaze swivelled round, past Alice and towards the interior of the house. “I'm here to see Arthur.”

Alice dabbed at her cheek with her fist, her eyes a fraction wider than before. “Yes, of course.” She made way for Gwen, gesturing her inside. “He's doing some reading in the parlour. Has been at it a while. You're lucky to have found him at home at all though.”

“Is he often away?” Gwen asked as Alice helped her out of her travelling cloak.

“These days?” Alice's eyebrows fluttered upwards. “Yes, quite. We hardly see him. He's meeting Mr Lamorak over that mine business of his at least thrice a week. Up with the dawn and back when the sun's low. Doesn't lunch with us, or dine with us. That's how it is these days. But I suppose that's because of--”

Gwen undid the pearl buttons that lined her gloves and took them off. “Because of?”

Her face averted, Alice deposited Gwen's cloak and gloves in the coat cupboard. “He just keeps absenting himself, that's all.” Alice bit her lip and dipped her gaze. “But it's nothing you should worry about, ma'am.”

Gwen laid her hand on Alice's shoulder. “You can still call me Gwen, dear Alice.”

“Oh but an awful lot has changed, hasn't it?” Alice said, leading her down the passageway and towards the back of the house, where old Mr Pendragon's study was. 

“Some things have,” Gwen said so low her voice was but a whisper. It was just as well; she wasn't sure what she'd meant by that. 

She followed Alice into the depths of old Trevena house. Like the outside, the inside had a fresh look to it. The furniture was the same, though the items that had cluttered the floor space the most were gone. The walls had been scrubbed cleaned and repainted so no mildew crusted the corner areas. A picture of Arthur's mother, long banished in some chest or other, now hung in the passageway.

With a quick rap, Alice knocked once on the study door, waited for acknowledgement from the inside, opened it and said, “Mistress du Lac, sir.”

Arthur looked up from the array of papers scattered at his desk. His hair wasn't combed and stood up in tufts at the front. In rolled up sleeves and a shirt unlaced at the top, he looked like a man snug in the privacy of his own home, like someone who'd been caught unawares while elbows deep in work.

There was such an air routine domesticity about the sight that Gwen's heart gave a lurch. “I'm interrupting, I see.”

“What, no.” Arthur rose from behind his desk, adjusted his hair, stopped fiddling it flat, and moved across to her. “You're providing some welcome relief from a long day of drudgery.”

She held out her hand for him to kiss. “Are you certain? I wouldn't want to make a nuisance of myself.”

He skimmed his lips across her knuckles, their touch so unlike what it would have been in the past Gwen chose not to dwell on the differences. “I'm positive.” He turned to Alice. “Could you see to some tea for Mrs du Lac?”

“Certainly, Arthur,” Alice said before retreating. 

The door snicked closed behind her.

Arthur invited Gwen to take a seat. Once Gwen had arranged her gown and sank into a rickety chair, Arthur pushed his paperwork aside and resumed his seat at the desk. “I'm sorry for the state of things. If I had known of your arrival, I'd have had Gaius and Alice tidy up.”

“Arthur, really,” Gwen said. “If I had suspected you were planning to make a fuss over me, I'd have stayed at home.”

“There might have been a time I'd rather have had it that way,” Arthur said, pinning her gaze with his. “When I thought I didn't want to face reality. But those days are past and I'm glad you're here.”

The first part of that sentence cut Gwen deep. She had known, of course. She couldn't have mistaken Arthur's attitude on his return for anything other than coldness. But she had somehow hoped that his resentment was only motivated by his hurt and not really what was in his heart. She had been too much of an optimist. Her choices had wounded him and made him more resentful than she'd like to think. And yet the second part of his speech made her breath free again. “Then let's act as old friends.”

He inclined his head. “Yes. Yes, why not.”

“So, what have you been up to since we last met?” Her gaze fell on the paperwork he had brushed aside. “Lancelot tells me you have news about the mine?”

“Oh yes,” Arthur said, one side of his mouth curving upwards. “Lamorak has been round and down Wheal Ygraine. He saw the silver and is keen to invest. We're planning on an opening, though we haven't decided all the ins and outs of it yet.”

She clapped both hands together. “But that's fantastic, Arthur!” 

Arthur sank into his chair, both arms resting on the desk. He sighed and looked away. “That doesn't necessarily mean my fortunes are made. We'll have to dig. See how deep the vein goes. We can't tell how much ore there is until we've invested more funds. And that is a commercial risk.”

“But you've always loved challenges.” Even before he set out to war, Arthur had always seemed keen to take on the world. That was, she believed, one of the reasons he'd left for America in the first place and one of the grounds for his keeping Trevena instead of selling it. “Haven't you?”

“Yes.” Arthur smiled but there were lines around his mouth and eyes. “You know me well.”

Gwen felt her face go hot and dipped her head. “I hope that my marriage hasn't erased everything we've been through together. Our knowledge of each other.”

“No, of course not.”

“So this should be good for you.” She worried her lip. “Have you any reason to think the venture will fail?”

“No.” Arthur laced his fingers together and flexed his hands out. “I'm more hopeful now than I was when I started works on Trevena.”

And yet he wasn't content. There was something clouding his happinesses and Gwen couldn't tell what it was. “There's something else worrying you,” she said at last, poking at it. “Something that isn't to do with the mine.”

“What makes you think that?” he asked, his mouth tightening, a tired look haunting his eyes.

“Your attitude right now,” she said, “the frown you're wearing, the way your mouth is cast in a pout. Don't think I can't read those signs, Arthur.” 

Arthur nodded. “It's nothing, really. If you knew, you'd laugh at me.” He snorted. “You'd probably think I've taken leave of my senses.”

There was a heartfelt quality to Arthur's words, an artlessness to them, a well of self-doubt as well as pain, that caused her dwell on them. “Try me. Tell me what worries you and I promise to answer honestly. ”

Arthur drummed his fingers on the desk. He opened his mouth several times but no sound issued. He angled his face away so it was set in profile. His jaw was in a tight mould and his brow had knotted. 

The moment Arthur opened his mouth, the door squeaked and in lumbered a tall lanky lad bearing a big wooden tray. He was no household servant; that much was clear. At Trevena, staff had never had liveries, but they'd always worn modest yet respectable clothing. This young man's outfit was none of those things. His shirt was worked so thin in places you could clearly make out his body underneath. The garment had come untucked and was as loose-fitting as a scarecrow's tunic. Mostly undone buttons and bunched up sleeves showing dirt smears completed the unkempt look.

When the lad saw Gwen, his mouth slackened in a clear show of surprise. He attempted a butler's bow but nearly lost his tray while performing the action.

Arthur seemed as surprised to see the young man as Gwen was, for his eyebrows climbed upwards and he said, “Where's Alice, Merlin?”

Merlin regained control of his tray, dropped his eyes and said in a thick accent, “In the kitchen. I was on the roof when she called. She said she was awful busy with dinner and could I help serving tea.” 

Knowing that it wouldn't do to laugh at the lad's manners and appearance, Gwen cupped her mouth.

“This is Merlin, my farmhand,” Arthur said, sweeping a hand at Merlin. “And this,” he added, walking over to Merlin and taking the tray from him, “is Mistress Guinevere du Lac.”

Merlin's eyes flared and he craned his head a little so he could look past Arthur and at her. He flipped two fingers off his forehead in salute, in the way of farmers all over the county, and bowed once more though neither gracefully nor low. “Ma'am.”

“Merlin.” She acknowledged him with a dip of the head.

Tray balanced between his hands, Arthur stood facing Merlin, head tipped to the side in close scrutiny of his farmhand. “You could have changed,” he said at last, though Gwen could tell that wasn't what he'd meant to say. “We have a lady visiting.”

Merlin's gaze dipped to the floor. “I didn't know that. Heard the carriage but didn't think there'd be people a-visiting” He waited a bit, raised his head, then spoke again with, Gwen thought, a spark of challenge in his gaze. “Sir.”

Arthur breathed out, bowed his head, tore back a step. The pitcher on the tray nearly unbalanced.

With a forward motion, Merlin thrust his hand under it. “Watch out. Ee be spillin' good milk there.”

“And we wouldn't want that, would we?” said Arthur, tipping his head up and back.

“No.” A tentative grin curled Merlin's lips just a notch. “No, we wouldn't.”

Arthur turned and rested the tray on a stack of books, then span around, facing Merlin again. After some time lost in contemplation, he picked a stray burr from his hair. With a thoughtful air about him, he turned the object in his fingers. “Been sleeping in the fields, have you?”

Merlin shrugged. “You wasn't there to tell me off.”

“No, I wasn't.”

“No.” Arthur cleared his throat. “The weather's about to turn. See to it that you sleep in your quarters.”

“I--”

“You can go, Merlin.”

As if in a wince, Merlin's eyes went a fraction smaller, then he sighed, bowed to Gwen and, head down, exited the room.

After the door had closed, Arthur stared at the vacated spot for a long succession of seconds.

Something was between them, Gwen felt. A tension, a straining of feelings, yet she couldn't put her finger on what it was exactly. She was just aware of it in the way one could sense the change in seasons, at body level, and deep down.

“So that was the farmhand Lancelot talked about,” she said, probing as discreetly as she could. “The one who found the silver?”

“Yes.” Arms crossed, Arthur was tapping the burr against his lips. “Yes, that's him. Merlin.”

“Am I mistaken in thinking you were perhaps a little chilly towards him?” 

“Perhaps,” Arthur said, pocketing the piece of furze. “With him I never know what's the right form of conduct.”

“You could have offered him to stay for tea.”

Arthur startled. “Mmm?”

“He could have stayed for tea,” she said again. “He did most of the carrying.”

“You'd find his manners appalling,” Arthur said.

Having a feeling Arthur would botch the job, Gwen rose to her feet so she could pour the tea herself. “Arthur, are you all right?”

Arthur exhaled. “Yes, perfectly.”

She didn't believe him, though in her new position, one that made her a stranger to him, she didn't know how far she could push for the truth. “Is this about your farmhand?”

“No,” Arthur said. “No.”

“He seems like a good lad.” Remembering how Arthur liked it, she added milk to his tea, then passed him the cup. “Isn't he a good worker?”

“Every day he sweats his weight off out in the fields.” Arthur took a sip of his tea, grimaced, spooned in more sugar, then absent-mindedly took another swig. “From dawn till dusk.”

“That's admirable.”

Arthur went on as if Gwen hadn't spoken. “Lately, I haven't been much on the farm, business and what not, and not only hasn't Merlin slacked at all, he's made of it a one man job he's running with a sure hand.”

“That's good.”

“He thinks I haven't been checking on him,” Arthur said, his forehead contracting. “But I have. Believe me, he was born for it. Running a farm.”

“So you have no complaints there?” she sat back down and sipped at her own brew. It tasted like oranges and honey and was quite bracing. “I know I would have none.”  
“I have many complaints.” He leant against the desk and brought his cup up to his lips. “He's too familiar, mouthy, insubordinate, and rough around the edges. Quite unfit for general society. Besides, he takes off at odd hours – albeit when he's done with his work – and he's secretive. You have no idea how much.” He paused and then under his breath he added a few unintelligible words. 

With this list of cons, Gwen wasn't sure why Arthur retained Merlin's services. “I see. Then perhaps--”

“The worst of it is,” Arthur said, shoulders slumping, “that I don't know the last thing about him.”

“You must have had some references.” Gwen couldn't think of hiring someone without them. Sefa, for example, had been taken on because both she and Lancelot had trusted her former employers when they'd said she was gold. “Someone must have put in a good word.”

“Nobody did.” Arthur said. “I found him at the Camelford fair.”

“What do you mean you found him!” Gwen felt her brow pucker.

Arthur's face closed off. “Never mind that. Let's just say that I didn't know him at all prior to hiring him and it's not as if I've learnt much about him since.” Arthur frowned, shifted, exhaled. “He's still a total mystery to me.”

“He can't be that much of one,” Gwen said. “We all have backgrounds, families.”

Arthur tapped at the side of his cup with impatient fingers. “He's never spoken about any of those things to me.” He put his cup down. “He dropped hints as to his mother being dead or at least only speaks of her in the past tense, but that's where the extent of my knowledge ends.”

Gwen chewed the inside of her lip. “And you'd like to know more?”

“I think that trust should be mutual,” he said, resuming his seat. “Even if I wanted to, I can't take a leap of faith when I'm the only working at it.” He blew air through his mouth. “But my that's neither here nor there and my relationship to my servant is of no import whatsoever.”

Once again Gwen failed to believe he was speaking the truth. Some change had come over Arthur, something subtle and yet naggingly present, that told her he wasn't the same man she'd known before. She mourned that, those parts of Arthur she had an instinctive feel for, felt the gap inside her like a tear and wished it wasn't there. But it was and she could do little about it. She wrung her hands. “There's something else. Something you're not telling me.” There, she'd be transparent and open, inviting confidence. “Something that's troubling you. An event? An action, a misunderstanding?”

Arthur scrubbed a hand down his face. His eyes went smaller, tension lines flitting around them. He opened his mouth, and Gwen was sure he'd open up, but he didn't. “Nothing's troubling me. Absolutely nothing.” He leant back against his chair, studied the crockery Merlin had brought in. “I've been remiss. Is there anything else you'd like? Some... cake?”

Gwen considered asking for some more refreshments, but then thought better of it. “No, I'll just have some more tea.”

They chatted a while longer, never quite finding an even footing to their conversation. Feeling it would be a safe topic, or at least one that wouldn't widen the gap of incomprehension between them, she asked a few more questions about Arthur's plans for the house. She offered her help in case he was contemplating refurbishing it. She was getting quite experienced at choosing furniture, she said. She could do it again with her eyes closed, she told him. She made sure to deliver that in as jocular a tone as possible. Arthur didn't pick her up on that, but rather thanked her and and told her that he thought he could manage for himself if it ever came to re-decorating. For the time being he had no intention of changing the furniture. With her having broached the topic, he enquired about Dower and whether renovating it had been a vexing experience for her. She smiled a small smile and admitted that it had been. There had come a point when she'd been so tired of seeing fabric samples, test swatches and rough sketches. “You have no idea.”

At last, with the conversation dwindling to nothing, she rose, saying she had to leave.

“I’ll escort you out,” he said, pushing off his feet before she could even accept his offer.

Together, they went to the door. His stride sure, almost military, he walked her across the yard and to the waiting carriage. 

Merlin was back at work and up on the roof, crouching with a hammer in hand. When he saw them, he raised his hand in salute. Gwen tipped her head in response and Arthur turned, paused, looked up. She could see the tendons in his arms go taut and his expression get more and more pained, with eyes that bore the brunt of some sort of hurt and that looked yet soft. 

“Arthur,” she told him, putting a hand on his wrist.

Arthur shook off whatever reverie he'd fallen into. “Yes?”

“Do promise you'll come see us soon,” she said, as she gathered her skirts to climb into the carriage. “For supper. Lancelot will be happy to have you. Come any day; don't bother writing in advance. We'll welcome you at any time.”

He closed the door after her and took her hand when she leant out. “I’ll see what I can do but I can't be positive. You can see how much attention the property needs.”

“I understand.” She squeezed his fingers, perhaps too tightly. “But do try and make an effort.”

“Goodbye,” he said, patting the carriage as it started rolling.

“Goodbye, Arthur,” she said, a strange feeling she couldn't name pricking at her consciousness. “See you soon.”


	12. The Owl

Arthur signed three copies of the same document and handed them to Leon. 

Leon forked on a pair of spectacles, checked the paperwork, folded it and slipped it in his leather portfolio. “I think it's fine. I'll have Mr Dagonet take a look at the fine print, but I believe I can safely say you and Mr Lamorak are in business.”

Feeling like one weight was off his chest, Arthur said, “I'm cautiously optimistic.”

“You should be,” Leon said, rising and gathering his things. “There's no cause for worry right now.”

Arthur rose. “I didn't think I'd hear you say that.”

Leon's shoulders went up. “You're doing quite well at present. Both the mine and the farm are long term investments, but I can see cause for hope myself. At the end of the day even though this isn't what I would have done myself--” He smiled sheepishly. “I approve of the outcome and admire your guts for trying it this way.”

Arthur walked Leon to the parlour door. “I, well, thank you.”

“What for?” Leon patted his portfolio. “This is all your doing and you should be proud.”

Arthur's face got a notch warmer. He acknowledged the praise with a swift nod and said, “And Lamorak's. We shouldn't forget his contribution.”

“No, indeed no.”

“In fact I'll go inform Lamorak of the latest developments later this evening.” Arthur shook Leon's hand. “Thank you for coming round.”

When Leon was gone, Arthur sauntered back into the heart of the room. He paused at the bookcase, ran a finger down the shelf, and found the tome he'd been looking for. With it in his hands, he walked to the armchair, sat in it, and opened the book.

It was a copy of the Pilgrim's Progress, one of the few texts of pure fiction his father had allowed in the house barring the great classics. Arthur had never loved it but he had been fond of some passages. While he had stayed indifferent to most of the narrative, he had appreciated the scenes involving Hypocrisy and Lord Hate Good. What he didn't understand was why Merlin was interested in the book at all. He'd said he wasn't religious, so why check out a text that detailed the journey of a man towards the celestial city? It made little discernible sense.

He flipped the pages, looked for bookmarks or traces of underscoring. There was none. Arthur went back to the first page and read the first few lines. _As I walked through the wilderness of this world, I lighted on a certain place..._ He still couldn't see it.

He set the book on the table close by and rang the bell. Instead of Gaius, Merlin appeared.

“Yes?” he said, shuffling in place.

“I wanted Gaius to pack me an overnight bag and saddle Hengroen,” said Arthur. “Could you tell him he's needed?”

“Gaius be down with a cold. Merlin's hands plunged in his pockets. “Nothing to worry about, but he be sleeping.”

“In that case,” Arthur said, starting to lever himself off his armchair, “I'll do it myself.”

“But do stay.” Merlin held up a hand. “I'll be doing it meself.”

“It's not one of your duties,” Arthur said, conscious of the fact he'd be taking advantage of Merlin if he let him play valet too. He hadn't failed to notice that Merlin had been on his best behaviour lately. While he could imagine the reasons why, he didn't want to unduly benefit from them. “I can't let you--”

“You wouldn't be lettin' me.” Merlin turned around in the doorway. “I want to do it.”

Merlin took off and Arthur sank back into his seat. A light rain pattered against the window panes, drops high-lit by sunlight, and the wind sighed softly. It wasn't enough to stop Arthur from going on his intended outing, but it was a warning the season was changing, veering into autumn. 

When Merlin came back, he said, "Hengroen be saddled." He tugged at his earlobe, hummed under his breath, and then took a quick succession of steps forward, fishing something out of his pocket and offering it to Arthur. "Afore 'ee go, I wanted to give 'ee this."

Arthur crossed to him and had a look at the object Merlin was extending to him. It was a carved wooden figurine, squat and beaky, with two large eyes and lines to stand for the ruffling of plumage. "An owl?"

"Yes. No. Yes." Merlin pushed the object at him. "I carved it in me spare time. It be for 'ee."

"Is this a present, Merlin?" Arthur asked, all air getting taken out of his lungs at the notion that it might be. He took the carving and turned it in his hands. It was good craftsmanship. The lines sharp and clear, all the angles well rounded, the expression realistic though displaying a touch of humour. "Because if it is..."

"Don't ee be saying ee can't take it," Merlin said, closing his fist around Arthur's. "I made it myself and I--" He took in a big lungful of air. "That be what I go around for. I bain't talking of that night. I made my promise not to talk about that. But sometimes I go a-roving, and I do like it, the exploring, but also to collect wood. For carving." 

"Merlin," Arthur said, but Merlin waved his palms around, asking for room to speak with his hands.

"I just do it, put it in me bag and do it," Merlin said, his shoulders going up to his ears. "My mum had a lot of them carvings lying around. I used to ask her what they be for. And she wouldn't say. Never wanted to. But she did tell'd me she couldn't do it herself. Couldn't carve. I learned meself with no one to teach me. How to carve people an' animals an' all sorts of stuff out of a shapely block of wood. I still do it from time to time. It keep the hands busy. So I go to the beach and find wood good for carving." Merlin reddened. "'Tis not steeling for it be free."

Arthur's voice came out husky, as though nettles were stinging his throat. "That's not stealing."

"I made it for ee," Merlin said, nodding at the owl he'd fashioned out of driftwood. "Not to say sorry, though that I be, but because I wanted ee to have something of me."

The tightness in Arthur's chest turned to unexpected, blooming warmth, and though he knew that conceding now was like offering an invitation to have his heart trod upon, he said, "Thank you. I appreciate the gesture." He looked down, aware of how short his words came of expressing his meaning. "I'll keep it."

"Thank ye," Merlin said, flashing him a smile that was like a rainbow after a storm. "It do mean a lot to me that ee would."

Arthur nodded, rubbed the figurine's head. "There's something I wanted to ask you." Arthur couldn't match gazes with Merlin, couldn't look him in the eyes for fear he would lie. With all that he had, Arthur hoped that Merlin wouldn't, that the basis for their relationship wasn't false, but still he couldn't face the moment of truth itself. "Did you take the Pilgrim's Progress?"

"Uh?" Merlin sounded nothing short of befuddled.

"That night--" They hadn't talked about it since and Arthur felt like he was breaking some sort of truce doing so now. "--when I came back I found a copy of Pilgrim's Progress open on the desk. Did you take it?"

Merlin reddened, looked away at the very moment Arthur decided to do away with his cowardice and study his face. "I--um, yes. I did."

"Whatever for?" Not that it mattered. All that counted was that Merlin had told the truth, that Merlin felt he could trust Arthur with the goings on in his life. "I mean, you're obviously welcome to any book in the house, but why that one?"

Instead of decreasing, Merlin's blush heightened. “I wanted to see if I could read it. But god's honest truth I can't." He gnawed on his lip. "I can't read."

So that was all it had been about, nothing more, and Merlin had made no secret of it, but rather confided the whole truth to him. Arthur's heart filled his chest with its drumming. He seized Merlin's forearm and said, "You can still have access to the library, Merlin."

Head down, Merlin nodded. "Thank you."

Arthur shifted his weight and scratched at his temple with a nail. Merlin rubbed his nape.

"Walk me to the stable," Arthur said at last, breaking the impasse and with more of a smile than he felt he'd worn in days.

Merlin helped him mount, adjusted the length of the stirrups for him and passed him his travelling bag. "So ye're spending the night at Mr Lamorak's?"

"Yes," Arthur said, watching the light rain fall on the courtyard. "I suppose so. We have lots to talk about."

Merlin tied the bag to Hengroen's back. "I'm that happy that the mine's taking off."

"Me too, Merlin," Arthur said, glad that Merlin was on board with him about that, that he felt he belonged enough to the household to partake of its triumphs. "Me too."

"Have a good night then," Merlin said, clucking Hengroen into motion.

Arthur checked the horse with his bridle. "And, Merlin," Arthur said, Hengroen prancing impatiently under him, "I'll teach you how to read myself."

"Really?" Merlin broke into a smile for him. He was positively beaming, eyes shining and dimples hollowing his cheeks.

"Really." Arthur ruffled Merlin's hair. Then Merlin's continued beaming making a quicksands of his insides, Arthur added, "Now go back inside."

As Arthur spurred Hengroen forward, Merlin sketched a salute with his hands.


	13. The Cave

Merlin knocked on Gaius and Alice's bedroom door. 

Alice opened, her hair in a tress firmed at the bottom with a ribbon, her body swathed in a night gown. 

“How be he?” Merlin asked, stealing a glance at the bed, where Gaius sat propped up by a stack of round pillows. 

“A touch improved,” Alice said, re-arranging the shawl that sat on her shoulders. “Complaining a lot, however.”

With a lift of his shoulders, Merlin showed Alice the tray he'd been carrying. “'Tis soup, for Gaius. I thought I'd make it meself in case 'ee were too busy to do the cooking on top of other things.”

“That's very thoughtful of you, Merlin,” Alice said, taking the tray from him. “I warmed some left overs, but it's not the same thing as a proper meal. This is perfect.”

“I be that glad I could help.” Merlin swept a hand through the hair at the back of his head and grinned. “Truly.”

“You're a good lad, Merlin,” Alice said, kissing his cheek. “With a heart of gold.”

Merlin grinned and couldn't prevent himself from going red in the face. “Ye're good friends; I like to be doing things for friends. That be all.”

“You're such a solace, Merlin.” Alice's gaze sweetened. “And such a fine addition to our household.”

Merlin felt something inside him unroll and warm. He didn't know what it was yet, if he should call it pride at the praise or a sense of pleasure at the thought of fitting. He didn't even think he wanted to name it. He lowered his head, shielding his expression from Alice for fear she could read it better than he understood himself. “Thank ee.” He shifted his weight from side to side. “I do like it here. I want the farm to do well.” He'd put his heart in it. He was enjoying seeing it progress from a semi abandoned place to well tended holding. Above all, he wished for Arthur to have his heart's desire too. With all the work he'd put in it, and personally too, when he could have just delegated, he deserved it. “That be all.”

“That's more work and commitment than most people would put in,” Alice told him. “The majority of hired labourers would just do their job and call it a day.”

Merlin couldn't think like that, that his work was for nothing but some food and a roof over his head. He appreciated what both meant, knew what going without entailed, but he wanted to think that his labour was for something more. There was a peace of him in this place: he'd etched a fraction of his soul in every ridge and furrow, boundary and edge. But at the same time he didn't want Alice to see that it was so for him. He didn't want her to believe he was overstepping the bounds of his role. “It be nothing.” Merlin slid his hands in his pockets and took them out again. “Nothing but doing me own job.”

“I won't embarrass you further,” Alice said, shifting the tray so she could take his hand. “I'll wish you a good night, dear Merlin.”

“Good night, Alice.” Merlin squeezed Alice's fingers.

With the house quiet after Gaius and Alice had gone to sleep, Merlin climbed into his room. The flame in the oil lamp was burning low, the dim light casting shadows across the walls. Moths fluttered around it and Merlin batted them away. He fed oil into the lamp and waited for the room to brighten. Once it had, he picked a piece of wood from the stash collected in his sack. He set it on his desk and toyed with the lump. He turned it around in his hands, studying the object, trying to find a shape in it. A dog, a cat, a bird? Any of those would work, though none exactly fit his idea of what he should do with the driftwood. A wolf perhaps. He had no references for a wolf. He'd never seen one in his life. But the idea still held his fancy in thrall.

He palmed the knife and started to cut across the grain, shaving off excess material. Bracing his thumb against the wood, he drew the blade back towards his own flesh. A strip of wood curled right off the block. He started again, sliding the knife along the surface in search of a pattern, but none would come to his fingertips. The block got slimmer in the centre and at the top but Merlin couldn't find its shape, couldn't see the final product. And he'd carved too much out of it already.

With a small disgruntled noise, he put down the piece of wood and with a sigh ambled over to the window. He lifted the sash and leant out. The sky was plum, back-lit by occasional flashes of lightning. Brushstroke clouds smeared the horizon, screening the world from the moon. Echoing from one end of the bay to the other and sounding like breaking glass, thunder rolled far away. 

He couldn't see the beach and he couldn't establish whether there were any vessels out at sea. No matter how much as he squinted, he could only make out vague shapes that stood for known landmarks, the headland far beyond, a giant crag that butted out to sea, the gleaming lighthouse sitting on top.

Merlin leant his head against the frame of the window and sighed. He massaged his head and found the bump at the back of it. It didn't hurt quite as much as it had in the beginning, but it was still tender in places, still dully sore. “Right,” Merlin said, pushing off the window. “Now or never.”

He slipped on the jacket that was draped over the chair. It was light and homespun. It had come apart at some of the seams and was not waterproof at all. But it would protect him against the wind, if not the rain. Brandishing a taper he lit at the open flame of the oil lamp, he went into the kitchen. He set a lantern alight with a match and upon doing so the wick released a strong, smoky smell, like cedar and peat. When the flame caught, he lifted the lantern and with it he walked into the study. He ignored the clutter of documents and books that littered the desks and instead made for the chest he'd on occasion seen Alice dust. With less than a steady hand, he put the lantern on the floor and opened the chest's lid.

Though it was still stained and dusty in places. Mr Pendragon's old uniform was folded carefully, its stark lines standing out. Merlin searched under the folds of the garment. Cloth rustled. His fingers scraped the bottom of the chest. But then his hands closed around something cold and hard. He moved the clothes aside, and found the muzzle of a pistol. He gasped and dropped it. The idea of it, what it was meant to do and how mechanically, drove a chill into his insides. 

Making sure not to touch it, he sifted through the other items – a shirt, a powder pouch, epaulettes – till he caught the shifting glint of metal. Merlin pushed his hand under a mound of rags and found the scabbard. It was ornate, made of brass, with a spiral design near its upper part and some gold under-lacquer showing through in places. When Merlin bared the blade, he found it was cushioned by an inner lining of crimson silk. 

“Oh but ee be pretty,” Merlin said, before discarding the scabbard and slipping the knife into his back pocket.

He left the house by the front door, crossing the yard at a swift pace, long shadows striping it and clothing it in darkness. Sure of where to go, Merlin struck out towards the cliffs, plunging on a downward trail cluttered with growths of black heather and big saw-edged boulders. As the jutting crags of the coastline came into view in a shower of moonlight, Merlin slowed down, picking his steps to avoid treacherous ground.

He lost his footing over beds of moss dark as pitch and over stones worked smooth by frequent passage. He scrambled up peaks of jagged granite and worked his way up summits. With the help of his hands as well as of his feet he inched his way upwards. He scraped his palms raw at times but he shrugged that as off as necessary. This was the only route that would allow him to come upon the beach from a different direction compared to the other time he'd been there. 

At times moonlight shone though the clouds and covered the plains and hills in a faintly pale glimmer that painted the marshes in gossamer threads. Sometimes it hid behind veils of mist and plunged nature in darkness. Black wings flapped somewhere beyond the cliff's outreach, swooping down to earth with shrill cries that made the small hairs on Merlin's body stand on end.

Irrespective of this, he scurried down the road that led towards the base of the cliff, hopping from stone to stone and hitting a dark trail whose end was lost in darkness. Soggy soil sucked at his soles, dampening them, chilling him from the feet first. Bogs lurked at the sides and he kept an eye out for them. He'd lived in areas such as these all his life and knew how dangerous ground such as this could be at night. Tales of men forever lost in the moors had informed his childhood.

When Merlin reached the bottom of the hill, he got to a pitch black pool. Trousers rolled up, he waded through it and, when he was clear of it, he found himself on the other side of the shoals from the stretch of beach he'd been on when he was attacked. He climbed the bluff that sloped up from the coastline, hopped off its lowest outcrop and hit sand.

He shuffled forwards across it until he saw light emanating from one of the caves hewn out of the cliff base. There was no way the glow could be anything other than artificial. It waxed and waned in the way of man made-fires. Besides, normally the coastline was plunged in darkness at this time of night. 

Merlin's nerves jingled and crackled. Cold pooled between his spine and lungs. His heart missed a beat, its pulsing painfully suspended. Wary of being caught unawares, he put out his lantern, hid it at the base of the overhang and took out his borrowed knife. Holding it aloft, he made towards the cave. As he cleared its entrance, Merlin's blood pulsed loudly in his ears, so much so, in fact, that he couldn't hear the echo of his own footsteps. 

As Merlin advanced, the reflection cast by leaping flames flickered across the walls, creating shapes Merlin thought he could almost put a name to before they guttered out. With a gulp Merlin made himself go on. The tunnel slanted down, then it sharply turned and rose at a steeper angle; thin little blades of gold flooding in from its depths. In this smoky haze he could see precious little but the rock formations that were part of the cave's structure, until, that was, he came face to with the muzzle of a rifle.

With a yelp, Merlin stumbled backwards.

“You again,” said a girl with hair so tow-coloured it looked white. “This time I'm going to shoot you and be done with it.”

Merlin held his hands up, but braced his back for a fight. He was aware this was not quite the same as a street brawl, that these odds were completely different, but he couldn't just let himself be killed without a fight. “'Ee can try.”

The girl snorted and cocked her weapon. “And what will you do to stop me?”

Merlin was pondering exactly the same question, when a shadow filled the tunnel. It came in the shape of a man, but the angle and the guttering firelight enlarged it to that of a faceless giant. “Aithusa, put down that weapon.”

Aithusa cocked her head to the side but didn't turn around. “But can't you see, Balinor; it's the same man as before!”

Balinor stepped forwards. He was as tall as Merlin but much wider in the shoulders. His hair was dark and peppered through with silver. It hung mostly loose but for a few strands gathered in a queue cinched with a ribbon. His big hands were wrapped around a blunderbuss, “I can see that.” His gaze latched on Merlin and something shifted in it, a hardness lifting. “We'll take him before the others, no rash gestures.”

Aithusa grabbed Merlin and marched him forwards, her rifle pressing into the small of his back. Balinor fell into step behind them. He wasn't aiming his weapon, but Merlin was sure that could change at a moment's notice.

“'Tis unlawful,” Merlin said, even as he was being shepherded forward. “'Tis kidnapping.”

“Yes,” Balinor said. “It is.”

Prodded on by Aithusa, Merlin staggered along down a long tunnel that seemed to have no end. At last they came upon a square chamber that had been hewn out of rock. A group of ten men and one woman sat around the fire. They were hunching forwards on rolls of netting, hands out for warmth. They were rough types with scarred faces, wild eyes, and ragged clothes that smelled of alcohol. Judging by the way the swayed and laughed, half of them were in their cups. They were all to the last one armed to the teeth with pistols, knives, and cutlasses, pouches, probably full of powder, hanging from their necks. 

When they saw Merlin, they sprang to their feet and pointed their weapons at him. 

“It be 'im again,” one of the men, a tall, leather-faced type, said, “I told 'ee we should've killed 'im the first time around!”

Balinor's voice was as sharp as thunder as he said, “Are you questioning my orders, Bawdin?”

“No,” Bawdin said, lowering his pistol. “But this time it be different.”

“I agree.” Aithusa whirled Merlin round and took his knife from him. “He's seen us. Can tell who we are. This time it won't be enough to douse him in alcohol and hope that either no one will believe his tale or that he'll have forgotten everything by the morning.”

Merlin's eyes flared. “So that were ee'.” He balled his fists and took a step forward. “I knew it. I knew I were right! I've as good as lost me master's friendship because of 'ee, ee sons of a motherless pilchard! ”

“I'd watch your step,” Aithusa said, levelling her rifle at him. “Because I'd be very happy to do the job I couldn't finish last time."

“Has everybody stopped listening to me?” Balinor arched his eyebrow. He dropped his blunderbuss and spread his hands either side of his body. “Is this what it's come to?”

There was a general murmur of denial and all but Aithusa lowered their weapons.

“He'll go run to the first Justice he can find,” said the other woman in the crew. “He'll get the militia. They're already close enough as is. We'll hang.”

“We won't, Enmyria,” Balinor said, “and do you know why? Because he--” Balinor pointed straight at Merlin. “Won't run to the authorities.”

Merlin laughed. “Oh, 'ee be funny. 'Ee be smugglers, to the last one of ee.” Merlin focused on his surroundings and saw crates and barrels, chests stacked up high along the cave walls, and an arsenal of weapons propped in one corner. “That be clear as day. An' you attacked me too. I have no reason not to run all the way to the Chief Justice!”

“So you think people should hang for circumventing the excise?” Balinor asked, his eyes flashing, even as he seemed to search the answer in Merlin's. “You think it's fair for people to die of hunger and starvation when the solution to that is plying a trade the government has made illegal?”

“Please.” Merlin rolled his eyes. “Spare me the sob story. I were born dirt poor too. I don't go around killing the King's Men and coshing people over the head, do I?”

“We never kill Revenue Men unless it's a life and death situation.” Balinor's lips twisted in distaste. “And you're still alive to blame us, aren't you?”

“Not with my leave,” said Aithusa.

“Nor mine.” This had to have come from Bawdin. Merlin was starting to recognise his tones.

“Silence!” Balinor scowled at his crew, eyeing them balefully one by one, then turned to Merlin again. “I have no desire to kill you, boy.”

Merlin snorted. He'd already been bashed over the head by these people. He'd nearly lost Arthur's good faith because of them and he was sure there was a pretty low chance he'd get out of here alive. For one thing far too many people in this room seemed to be itching to do him in; for another he wasn't positive he believed this Balinor person act of rugged good will. “An' I should believe ye're straight as a gun? That you won't bury a knife in me back the moment I be turning?”

“Oh you'd talk the 'ind leg off a donkey, wouldn't ee,” Balinor said, slipping into an accent that was closer to Merlin's than any of the people who'd so far spoken was. “I'm guaranteeing you safe passage, if you but promise not to give us away.”

“But he will.” Aithusa made wide, imploring eyes at Balinor. “Why can't you see that?”

“Maybe he won't,” one tall fellow with biceps as wide as a tree trunk said. “I don't know why I have a good feeling about the fellow, but I do.”

“The boy won't.” Balinor speared Merlin with his gaze. “Because he understands injustice and he understands poverty.”

“As well as I understand thieves an' ragamuffins,” Merlin said. 

“But what do we do that is so wrong?” Balinor asked. “We don't pay taxes on the goods we smuggle in, that is true. But compared to a government that has decreed the death penalty on anyone found illegally exporting wool, it's but a light crime.” 

Merlin couldn't say that Balinor didn't have a point, that he wasn't making sense, or that his beliefs were that far away from Merlin's. But Merlin was bound to he wonder how truthful Balinor was being. “Aye but 'ee haven't tried to stay honest, have 'ee.”

“We all have at one point or another,” said Balinor. “Take Aithusa. She was born into the workhouse. She worked hard all her childhood, and If I hadn't got her out, she'd have worked herself to death in there.”

Merlin smiled a bitter smile. It tasted like grey walls, the stale sweat of other men and women, ashes and tanning chemicals. “An' I'm sure no honest job ever came up after.”

“Consider Percival.” Balinor swept his hand at the man with the big biceps. “He was a blacksmith with an honest trade and a wife. Then one year a famine struck his neighbourhood and people could no longer afford his services. Percival understood their strait and made them cheaper. Still, no customers came. By and by he had precious little to live on himself and when his wife fell ill he had no more money left to cure her with. Without a fee the local doctor wouldn't treat her. She died.”

“In November,” Percival put in.

“In November.” Balinor nodded “By December Percival was one of our number.”

“I'm awful sorry,” Merlin told Percival, mostly because he was the only one who hadn't pointed some sort of weapon at Merlin, thus proving that he at least was really as non-violent as Balinor claimed to be. He faced Balinor once more. “But I bain't sure ye're not lying.”

Balinor huffed and his shoulders went up. “You're aware you're one against thirteen, boy?”

“That a threat, master smuggler?” Merlin rolled his shoulders back. He realised how silly it must look. These people outnumbered him and he was weaponless. “Because if it be, I'll have ee know it don't impress me.”

“I was acknowledging your guts, boy.” Balinor inclined his head. “They remind me of someone I once knew.”

Merlin wondered what that had to do with anything. Most of all though he considered whether that meant Balinor was more or less inclined to kill him. The cold first stab of fear that had frozen his bones when he'd been surrounded had receded. But he wasn't sure if he wasn't just being fooled by Balinor's calm attitude. “So ee won't do away with me?”

“No.” Balinor put his hand on his heart. “I promise not to harm you. In return I only ask for a few days silence.”

“Why a few days only?” Merlin's brow twitched into a frown. 

“If you raise the hue and cry,” Balinor told him. “The King's Men will come in force for us.” Balinor paused, licked his lips. “Normally we wouldn't care. But our ship has run aground off Trebarwith. It'll take us a few days to repair it and put it back in rig. Without our ship, we aren't only grounded; we're at the mercy of the redcoats.”

Merlin nodded. “That do make sense.”

“So will you keep quiet about having seen us?” Balinor asked. “Or will you cause the death of people whose only crime was importing goods without paying all the due taxes?”

Merlin bit his tongue hard and let his shoulders go down. “All right. I won't be tellin'. I promise. But I want proof you were here.”

“So you can give it to the magistrate?” Aithusa stepped in.

“No.” Merlin sucked in his lower lip and shook his head hard. “So I can give it to a friend. As proof of me honesty.”

“You're lying,” Aithusa said.“Why would that even matter?” 

“Because I lost this man's good opinion an' it grieves me sore,” Merlin said, making as clean a breast as he could. “If I can prove I didn't lie about ee to him then I can 'ave it back. Nothing matters more.”

“You can have all the proof you want.” Balinor handed him a long cutlass that was so long it would have been fit for Blackbeard. “You can take it and give it to him as proof of our presence in the neighbourhood and welcome. But give us some head start before you do or your friend might take it into his head to denounce us to the authorities.”

“An' if I do promise.” Merlin cocked his head. “I can walk free?”

“Aye.” Balinor kissed his fist. “That you can do.”

“Well, if that be so.” Merlin took a step back. “I'll be goin'.”

Balinor kicked a crate forward. “Not so fast.”

Merlin's hopes of making it out of there alive plummeted. “I be plummer th'n mud. Ye're going to kill me now, aren't ee?”

“No, boy,” Balinor said, sitting on the crate with his arms crossed. “We just have a tradition in our ranks.”

“An' what be it?”

“We share toasts as a sign of good faith.” Balinor gestured for a bottle, which Percival handed him. “Once you've wetted your tongue on some good French brandy, you're a friend and to be treated as such.”

Enmyria pushed Merlin down on the netting and Percival handed him a wooden cup full of an amber liquid that smelled like honey. 

Merlin sniffed the contents. “Are 'ee poisoning me?”

“That's not how we'd do it,” Balinor told him, taking a seat around the fire across from Merlin. “Even though the law brands us criminals, we have a code of honour.”

Merlin shuffled his cup around so the contents sloshed inside it. “What be it about?”

“Doing the right thing by your comrades and friends.” Balinor drank from his bottle and cleaned his mouth with the back of his hand. “Make honest trades and deal with the King's Men in the least violent fashion possible.”

Merlin mumbled words of understanding.

As fractions of an hour unrolled, the smugglers took to drinking. They broke into loud laughter, swapped stories of reckless deeds and danced around the fire. They did so to the strains of a song Aithusa sang. It was a wistful melody made haunting by the quality of the girl's voice. The song was about mariners lost at sea, water their graves, their souls wandering the abyss. It was about port towns and loneliness on shore. It was about the treachery of the elements and the promises you made to the people left behind on dry land. 

Merlin sat against the wall, drinking his brandy in small doses, nursing his knees. He ran his knuckles across the length of his wooden cup, scraping them against its grain. He huddled and chewed his lip, watching the goings while failing to understand them. 

Percival took over as entertainer. He played the fiddle, strumming notes along that coalesced into a merry song that was fit to be played during a maypole dance. 

Over its notes Balinor asked, “So where are you from, boy?”

Merlin had been so lost in the notes, in this strange sense he had of having plunged in an alternate world, he startled. “Oh, Cornwall.”

“That I can hear in yer accent, boy.” Balinor's mouth curved on one side. “But where are ee from?”

Merlin smiled. “Helston. Or roundabouts.” Merlin didn't want to tell this stranger everything. Even if Merlin hadn't gone back in a long while, he knew it wouldn't be wise to share that kind of information with a self-avowed criminal. “I grew up in a tiny stone cottage. We barely even 'ad a roof because the one we 'ad kept leaking.” Merlin had no idea why he was saying these things, but the memories would just surface, so he shared them. Bloody brandy. “But we was happy.”

Balinor swilled down the last of his drink and put the bottle down. “You had a large family?”

“No.” Merlin smiled at the floor. “It were just me and my mum. But we 'ad it good. We was poor an sometimes we went 'ungry, but there were always a smile on me mum's face, no matter what, and I was never afeared.”

“Your mother sounds like a brave woman.”

“That she were,” Merlin said, tossing down the last of his own brandy in a silent toast. It heated his face and stuffed his head with cotton. “That she were.”

“Has she passed?” Something broke behind Balinor's eyes and Merlin didn't know whether it was pity or understanding. 

“Aye.” Merlin dabbed the sweat the alcohol had worked on his face. “That she was.” He oughtn't have talked more, but somehow he found himself indulging in his spoken reverie. “She raised me alone. All by 'erself. She weren't properly married and folks used to point their fingers at 'er, as though they was better. But she were brave and bore it all with a smile and as kind a word for they as they wouldn't have for 'er.”

“Sounds like a great woman,” Balinor said. “A really fine one.”

Merlin acknowledged that with a small sound.

More brandy was passed around, and rum too. It came in fat bottles with smooth angles. The brandy sloshed around in taller bottles. They had fancy labels with ornate designs that hemmed the sticker's front. Some of them had mould eating at them and looked so old as to have been bottled when Merlin hadn't been born. When Merlin asked if that was the case, Percival said that was probable.

And then he expanded on the subject. He told Merlin the brandy came from Brittany and the rum from Jamaica. "There's was an innkeeper in Guirac, who sells the best spirits in the whole of Northern France. He has a small wayside inn you wouldn't stop to look at twice, a shady den with cobwebs that run along the counter and patrons you'd be scared to look at. But he has a secret back-room lined with casks of the best wines and liquors you can find in the whole of France. An entire room stacked high with casks." Percival gestured.

Merlin said, “I bet it were a sight to see.”

“Indeed,” Percival said, waiving him over. “Come an' have a look. I can show you some of his stuff.”

Merlin pushed off the wall and nearly reeled on his feet. The chamber wobbled around him at a fast spin, colours and lighting bleeding into each other until Merlin's stomach perched in his throat. The brandy they'd given him must have been a potent concoction. Merlin breathed in and down, swallowed against the bile-like taste that flooded his mouth. After a few seconds, Merlin adapted to his new position, and found he could move across the room. He wasn't quite as graceful as he could have been, but he did manage to stagger onwards. He clomped on until he nearly stomped all over a bundle someone had left on the floor. As Merlin stampeded over it, it came undone. As soon as he got his feet back under him, Merlin tried to fold it back. He'd just caught hold of one of the lengths of cloth, when he saw the wooden horse. 

It was no more than a toy sitting among other similar ones. But it was so well done Merlin's gaze lingered on it. Muscle and sinew had been carved into the beast's body. A mane flowed from the top of its head down to its neck. Its eyes were small but full of character. The other animals were done in the same style too, one Merlin had striven for for a long time yet never quite mastered, but he didn't study them closely for fear someone would pick up on his snooping and get angry.

“Don't worry about those,” Percival said. “They're just trinkets. Balinor carves when he's bored.”

“Um,” Merlin said, the heat from the brandy draining from his face and leaving it a clammy cold. “Good pastime.”

Unaware of Merlin's reaction, Percival lifted the lid of one of the crates with a crow bar and showed him the contents. Row after row of shiny black bottles with fat corks and elaborate labels sat aligned inside it. Merlin had to have been staring at a veritable fortune in smuggled goods. “Oh, that be something.”

“It's all prime stuff. Have a try.”

“I'd better not.” Merlin botched a shrug. “I already be sore pickled.”

“As you wish.” Percival put the lid back in place. “Your loss.”

When his gang got so deep in their cups they had started talking about runs to Brittany's hidden coves and secret passwords, Balinor ordered Aithusa to escort Merlin out. He didn't even exact a vow of silence from Merlin again. He just turned around and stepped into the shadows.

It was as if he'd never been there at all.

Feeling a draught from the outside play on his face, Merlin followed Aithusa down the same tunnels they had come from. Though his mind was churning with thoughts that pinched at his heart and took the strength from his legs, he made himself ask, “So how long 'ave ee been with Balinor's gang?”

Aithusa looked straight ahead as she answered. “You heard his story. I was in the workhouse. He got me out.”

“Ee must be grateful,” Merlin said, brow pinched, cheeks hollow, heart skipping a beat. 

She said, “Aye, and more.”

“Oh.” Merlin really didn't know what to think about the nature of that statement. For that matter, he wasn't sure he still retained the ability to process clearly. His throat felt clogged and his heart seemed to be trying to push its way out of his mouth and that was all he could pay attention to. “Oh.”

“He's like a father to me.” Aithusa whirled round and got him by the collar. “So if you're planning on grassing on us, I'll make you pay for it.”

“Got it,” Merlin said, even as he was trying to busily sort out whether it was the world that had gone upside down or if it was he who'd lost all understanding of it. “Clear as a bell.”

“You'd better have got it.” Aithusa released him.

She didn't say a word more. She only escorted him out of the cave and up to the beach. When Merlin begged for Arthur's knife, she made a face, but gave it back to him. 

As Merlin crossed the beach, the raw night air bit at his skin from under his thin clothes. The breeze was pure here, and crystal-clear, with a define tang of salt to it. Wrapping his jacket around his body, Merlin retrieved his lantern and fought his way home. Shaken and with legs that would scarcely hold him, he climbed the jagged summit of a crag. He waded through meadows where the heather stirred and trudged across fields of corn that had stalks as tall as half a man. 

When he got back to Trevena, he put Arthur's knife back in the chest it had come form and secreted Balinor's cutlass in his room, right under a floorboard that had come lose in the first days of his occupation of the space. He did so with a will never to dig it up again, to never heed the stirrings of his instinct, to never listen to the voice in his head that told him he'd stumbled upon a truth about himself he was not meant to unravel and that didn't matter anymore anyway.


	14. The Opening of the Mine

Gwen let the melody unfold in her head in all its parts, in measures and movements, before she poised her fingers on the piano keys. At first the notes were shy and tremulous, a tentative rhythm that was nothing more than an introduction, a pale milky dawn that didn't quite look like day. By and by the music grew in heft and strength, developing a bulk of its own, the lines surging upward through a triton F, the phrases developing in consecutive quarter notes. She stroked the white keys all the way to the highest treble and coaxed the sharp sounds out of the black ones. A slow smile parted her lips when the harmony swelled up to her exactly in the way she had imagined.

She was about to play the caesura, the tempo at her fingertips, when the door opened. 

Sefa curtsied but Vivian Corney shouldered her way past her. “Mrs du Lac.”

Gwen rose from the piano and inclined her head. “Miss Corney! What a... delightful surprise. What brings you here?”

Vivian fluttered her fan about. It rustled with a swish of silk. “Oh just a social call.”

Her hair up in tufts, Elena stumbled into the room after her sister, noticed Gwen, dropped a courtesy that nearly bowled her over, and teetered into straightening. “Mrs du Lac.”

Gwen acknowledged the girl with a smile she made wider than the one she'd bestowed on her sister, and told Sefa, “Get some refreshments for our guests.”

Vivian and Gwen sat opposite each other on the small sofas arranged behind the piano. They were set in its shadow, far from the window, where shade cooled the room. 

Elena tumbled into a wide armchair, elbows up, the frills and ribbons of her sleeves dancing with her movements in a choreography of browns and yellows until she appeared to decide she could safely lower them onto the armrests.

Once they were all seated, silence fell, the low burr of insects penetrating the windows' glazing.

Nose turned up, Vivian skimmed her gaze across the room. From the dark alcoves behind the brocade curtains, to the wrought dresser at the far end, her gaze encompassed it all from one corner to the other. 

Gwen could read disapproval in it and she tried her best not to pick up on it, not to react. Her role as hostess required it she be polite at all times. Even so she found herself sitting up straighter, her head held higher. She didn't want to stand taller in defiance of Vivian but out of self-respect. 

Cheeks puffed up, Elena twiddled her thumbs in her lap.

When Sefa brought the tea things in, pots and cups jingling on the tray as she moved, conversation started again. It didn't include Elena because she was too busy making wide eyes at the golden mound of crumpets before her, poking at it till her fingers got sticky with jam and grainy sugar. But it did involve Gwen and Vivian. 

“So how have you been?” Gwen said, over a steaming cup of jasmine tea. “Lancelot and I haven't seen you since our first reception weeks ago.”

“I have been awfully busy,” said Vivian, cradling her own cup between her palms. “Father took us to London. We went shopping.” She arched an eyebrow at Elena. “Well, my sister got nothing but I purchased three new gowns and Father gifted me with a new grand piano.”

“It's mine also,” Elena mumbled, chewing open-mouthed. “But I don't like practising.”

“I see.” Gwen wondered if Vivian had come visit to brag about the piano. “Is it a Kirkman like mine?”

“Oh, no, much better.” Vivian's lips quirked up on one side only. “It's from Broadwood and Sons.”

Gwen set the cup down on its saucer, which lay in her lap, and turned it round and round. 

Crumpet crust flakes sticking to her upper lip, Elena put another piece of confectionery in her mouth.

Eyes on her cup, Vivian drank her tea, hummed softly under her breath, then took a another sip.

The sounds of Sefa doing housework in the neighbouring room drifted over, the slapping of a mop on the floor, the dull pounding of a carpet beater shaking dust off rugs.

“I was wondering if you'd been to the opening of Mr Pendragon's mine?” Vivian asked.

“No, I'm afraid not.” Gwen had known it would happen soon. The other day Lancelot had had lunch in town with Lamorak and got the news before it widely spread. “I'm sure it went well.”

“Oh, it did.” Vivian set her cup on the side table and edged forward in her seat. “I was there myself naturally. I believe Mr Pendragon needs all the emotional support he can get from his most particular friends.”

“I see.” Gwen cleared her throat with a light cough. “I'm glad you were there to supply it.”

“I couldn't have missed the event for the world.” Vivian's eyes shone brightly. “Mr Pendragon gave a speech.” 

“Arthur is quite eloquent.” When Arthur had a cause, he could move others to embrace it wholesale. Back in '78 one of the local church's aisles had burned down. Gwen had seen the smoke from the window of her brother's home, steaming upwards in a charcoal cloud that tinted the air dark. The air had tasted like cinder for days, clogging lungs and tickling throats. Arthur had helped gather the funds to do rebuilding. At first of nobody had wanted to contribute to the reconstruction. Out of a whole crowd of parishioners standing in the mud of the green only two had raised their hands to say they wanted to pull their weight in. At the centre of the group Arthur had stood, his head bare in spite of the light rain, his shoulders thrown back even though the wind buffeted him and tugged at his clothes. He'd spoken about civic duty, promoted supporting the only institution that offered some shelter to the poor and disenfranchised of the area. It was for them, he said, that they were making the effort. “I always thought that if it wasn't so corrupt, he ought to enter politics.”

“He was marvellous.” Vivian bobbed her head. “A born orator. I had tears in my eyes during the whole of it.”

“The miners were moved too,” Elena said after she'd swallowed her latest bite. “You could see it in their faces when Mr Pendragon talked about the potential for the county, how they'd all work together to make sure the mine prospered, making more jobs available.”

Vivian clacked her tongue. “El, why are we talking about those uncouth, illiterate people?”

“Because they were there?” Elena's eyebrows went up and her eyes themselves widened. “It was all about them.”

“What, no,” Vivian said, laughter edging her voice. “I'm sure they'll do their job well. But this was about Mr Pendragon and his venture. It's about his role in it, his enterprising nature. It's the talk of the county. Everybody says that if the mine has a rich load, he'll become the most affluent man in it.”

Elena shook her head. “But didn't he say that the whole undertaking was about community of intent, helping each other out?”

“Oh, I didn't listen to that part.” Vivian flapped her hand about. “I was more concerned with Mr Pendragon's words about the, um, the...”

“I'm sure Arthur made very interesting points.” It wasn't that far-fetched an assumption, Gwen believed. “And that it was so all around.”

“Most assuredly.” Vivian toyed with one of her side ringlets. “I would have listened to him speak out on the subject for days on end. Mr Pendragon is so charismatic and his tones are so lofty. But unfortunately he had to cut his speech short because of his stupid dogsbody.”

“Dogsbody?” Gwen faltered at the term used.

“Merlin,” Elena told her. “Alice sent him with basketfuls of food for the workers.”

“He's such a thankless wretch he caused Mr Pendragon to drive back to the house before he'd touched any of the refreshments himself.”

Gwen frowned. “I'm sorry, I'm not sure I understand this.”

“It didn't go as Vivian said it did.” Elena turned in her armchair so she could face her sister. “Merlin drove the cart with the food. He unloaded it and served the miners himself so as to spare Alice. He did lots of fetching and carrying, poor soul. He made at least two trips from and to Trevena because the miners' families had turned up and more victuals were needed.” Elena's eyes shone with earnestness. “But you could see from a mile away there was something wrong with him.”

“Yes, he dared sport a long face during the whole thing when, from what I gather, he's got it rather grand,” Vivian said. “He's being fed and housed when rumour has it he was nothing more than a lice-ridden vagabond before he joined the Pendragon household.” She sniffed. “Utterly disrespectful of him not to show his appreciation of the good that's been done to him.”

“I don't think Merlin was ungrateful at all.” Elena wrung her hands together. “He looked rather sad and preoccupied. I was quite glad when Mr Pendragon gave him the afternoon off and escorted him back to Trevena. If he hadn't, I'd have walked him myself.”

“You couldn't have, you goose,” Vivian said. “You're a lady. Ladies don't parade around the country with guttersnipes in tow.”

As Vivian and Elena argued the point, Gwen reflected over Arthur and his relationship to Merlin. Arthur was, in most ways that counted, Merlin's benefactor. Even if her statement was influenced by her rather unique perspective, Vivian didn't have it entirely wrong when she stressed Arthur's generosity towards Merlin or when she wondered at the peculiarity of Arthur's familiarity with his farmhand. Gwen had noticed some of that herself. While she had had too little time to form an opinion of Merlin herself, she was certain he mattered to Arthur. The how was unclear to Gwen as were the details, but she felt their bond with a clarity of perspective that was so bright she couldn't quite bear to look at it. 

“Mrs du Lac?” Vivian's voice rose in pitch. “Mrs du Lac?”

“Yes?”

“I was saying.” Vivian over-pronounced her words. “Class distinctions ought to be preserved, boundaries held up. Mr Pendragon is such a shining beacon of gentlemanliness, he shouldn't do this. With him being such a role model, people lower down the social scale will take it into their heads to act as he does towards those below them. And where would we be if that happened?” A look of horror crossed her face. “Don't you agree that it's wrong? Perhaps you should talk him out of it.”

Before Gwen could answer, Lancelot came in. He had relinquished coat and cane at the door but had a fresh-off-a-walk look, his boots dusty and his eyes bright from exercise. “I see we have guests.”

“Some tea?” Gwen asked, placing her palm on top of the flowery pot.

“Yes,” Lancelot said, coming over to perch next to Gwen. “Yes, why not.”

It was because of Lancelot's solid presence at her side, his patting of her hand and his bumping shoulders with her, that Gwen could sit through a further hour of Vivian waxing lyrical about Arthur. When Vivian's praise grew eccentric, Gwen tuned her out, seeking out the calluses on Lancelot's palm, running her thumb across them. He had a strong hand, her husband. When the conversation changed to different topics it was Lancelot who kept it going with his engaging of Elena, his talk of horses, county races and nature. 

Behind the screen of her hand, Vivian yawned. She trifled with her hair and necklace and stirred her spoon in the empty cup she'd laid aside. She made another attempt at joining the conversation some time after, but from her lagging behind, it was clear she wasn't much enjoying its subject. 

She revived a little when Gwen asked her to sit at the piano, which she did with gusto, playing a piece whose notes tangled together in complicated patterns, like a labyrinth of sound, but she grew quiet the moment she was done with her concerto. After a short lull of silence made more vibrant by the absence of music, Vivian steered the conversation back to Arthur, saying she wished she could talk to him now. If he were with them now, Vivian would tell him about her father, how he had been to see Justice of the Peace on account of the smugglers. “Mr Pendragon was so concerned when we discussed the topic. He would be so relieved to hear that the militia is but two days away.” 

Once Vivian and Elena were gone, the sound of their carriage trundling away waning in the distance, Gwen and Lancelot looked at each other and, with a chuckle, shook their heads.

“Miss Corney is quite...” Lancelot said. 

“Quite.”


	15. The Militia

The book that lay open on the desk wasn't one of Arthur's old primers. He still had some of those stacked at the bottom of a dusty chest that creaked every time he opened it, their spines cracked, their front pages bearing finger-shaped stains, some of them so loose they would have come off with the lightest tugging. He hadn't wanted to give Merlin too child-focused a text to start on, hadn't wished him to think Arthur saw him as less than a fully-grown man only because he couldn't read. Rather it was a thick tome bound in leather and with the pages a little curled at the margins that they were studying. Its illustrations were small but their lines were careful, thick, flowing one into the other in perfect symmetry. Vessels stood out of the page, swathes of their waists defined by sharp contours drenched in black, their rigging traced in thin graphite veils. Cross sections showed the bowels of the various craft, from keel to deck, their anatomy exposed.

When Arthur turned the page, Merlin sighed.

“You're heart's not into it,” Arthur said, watching the sharp line of Merlin's profile. “I can tell.”

Merlin released another exhale and pressed at his forehead with the heel of his hand. “I be awful sorry, Arthur. I know 'ee mean well learning me to read an' all.”

“It's 'I'm awfully sorry, Arthur.” Arthur made the corners of his lips turn up at hearing himself lecture Merlin on standard grammar. The truth was he liked Merlin's version of it better. It made him who he was, a man whose roots were tangled with his native soil. “And we can do this another day if you're feeling low.”

“I bain't--” Merlin sucked on his lower lip. “I'm not feeling low.”

Arthur slumped into his chair. “I beg to differ. You haven't smiled in days.” He swept a thumb across Merlin's cheek, waking a dimple. Though the touch was quick and light, it burned so much he dropped it. “I can tell the exact time you did it last.”

Merlin fought to hold on to his smile. It was a weaker one than his regular bursts of sunshine, but it was there, curling his lips and lending a spark to his eyes. “It be 'brigantine', the word 'ee wanted me to read. Brigantine. It be a type of ship.”

“Yes.” Arthur's own mouth quivered at the corners. “Yes, that's what it is.”

“Do smugglers use brigantines to sail the seas?” Merlin's head was down and he was stroking the book's open page top to bottom with his open palm.

“Brigantines are two-masted ships with a fully square rigged foremast and fore-and-aft-rigged mainsail.” Arthur remembered the lessons his Marine friends had given him during his passage over to America. The voyage had been long and often dreary and the sea mostly choppy, confining men below decks, where the space was cramped and everything smelled like sweat and tar. Plenty of occasions had arisen for small talk and one of the topics of conversation has been naval engineering. “They're fast and easily manoeuvred so some pirates make use of them, but they're not necessarily pirate vessels.”

“Oh.” Merlin traced the shape of the illustration with his fingers. “Oh.”

“You're interested in nautical science” Arthur watched Merlin for reactions, saw him wipe big, gangling hands down his trousers in a repetitive gesture. “If you are, we can dwell on that. God knows I'm not an expert, but there must be a book on the topic in this house.”

“Yes.” Merlin bobbed his head in a wide up and down arc. “Yes. Why not.”

Arthur closed the book and started on his feet. “You know what, sod the books. We're going.”

Merlin tipped his head backwards to follow Arthur as he flitted about the room, collecting his outerwear. “Going? Where?”

Arthur tossed Merlin his jacket. “Wait and see, Merlin. Wait and see.”

Right about midday, when the sun was perpendicular to the sky, they got to the fringe of the moor. They took the orange dusty track cutting across the black heart of it and leading towards the stretch of coast lying between Trebarwith and Treligga. No real paths opened up here. Tufted grass and drying heather was all there was underfoot, the undergrowth stretching for miles and miles in patches of powdery yellow and pink. They climbed over stones and waded across soft marshy ground, tackled slopes and negotiated plains. Side by side, they trampled across mounds of dead bracken and slipped into valleys shoehorned between tors. From time to time Merlin asked him where they were going, but Arthur didn't answer him. The wind ruffling his hair and tugging his clothes askance, he ploughed on at the same pace as before and plunged into hard terrain.

At last the road ended and they came upon a long stretch of flat coastline washed white by the sea. A few rocks jutted out into the depths and on one of these Arthur climbed. With his hand, he shielded his eyes against the glare of the sun and said, “From here you can spot all the ships en route to either Bristol or Ireland.”

Merlin mounted on the rock beside him and looked out to sea. “What be that one?”

Arthur squinted in the distance. “A sloop, I'd say.” He pointed. “You can tell because it's only got one mast.”

“And that one?” Merlin cocked his head to the side in the direction of a vessel whose wake chopped the sea white. “What sort be that one?”

“That's a brig, I believe,” Arthur said, hoping Merlin wouldn't ask a question he didn't have an answer to, wishing he could have all the knowledge he needed at his fingertips, so that Merlin could see that Arthur knew about more than just farming and war-mongering. “Brigs have two masts and square sails.”

Merlin didn't ask another question though for a while Arthur thought he might. When he spoke next it was to say, “I knew a sailor once. When I were a child. Kilgey 'is name were. When I were proper sad, he wouldn't lemme mope all alone in a corner. He telled me stories, tales of the sea. I sat there, all agloom, with me legs under me, 'is voice in me ears. But I didn't listen. Not to the stories. I liked the sound of his voice an' how 'e made everything out to be like true witchcraft. Those yarns about places an' lands I never thought I'd do well-a-fine enough to see. Now I wish I 'ad listened. I really do.”

“It's never too late,” Arthur said, sensing the resurfacing of the same wistfulness that had shrouded Merlin these past few days. “To learn. To listen.”

“Per'aps.” Merlin rattled out a sigh that shook his ribcage. “Or per'aps not.”

They sat side by side under the sun, watching vessels creep across the horizon line in long straight tracks edged with white. They looked like spun sugar, like clouds on water, spinning into nothingness far down into the blue. They played a game of 'what ship, where bound?' that reminded Arthur of his childhood until neither of them could think of any new destination, any other distant port a ship could put into. They got drenched in sunlight until their bones were warm, their palms flat on hot jagged rocks. When sweat beaded their foreheads in thick clusters, they took off their jackets. They stayed perched on top of the outcrop with their shirts flapping in the breeze, until that too felt like too much and Arthur stood and stripped.

Merlin's mouth fell open, cheeks overspread with a blush. “What 'ee be doing?”

“What do you think I'm doing, Merlin?” he said with a touch of lightness he didn't feel, not when he had Merlin's eyes on him scalding his skin to a burn. “I'm getting naked.”

“That I can see.” Merlin snorted but his eyes lingered on Arthur, at the legs and chest and flanks. “But why?”

“Can you swim, Merlin?” Arthur bent his shoulders back, pushing out his chest, back-muscles loosening even as a sweet sharp ache pooled at his marrow. “As far out as the open sea?”

Merlin stood and unbuttoned his shirt one-handed. Then he dropped his trousers, shoes and smalls. The sight was one that had greeted Arthur time and time again, in the fields, at the pump, and even inside the house. But there was something different to it now. The construction lines of Merlin's body were, naturally, unaltered. He was the same slim, sharp-angled man as always. But there was something less perfunctory about his nudity now, something that made Arthur dwell on it, see it in a new light that put wonder in him and made his ribcage very small. “I can swim. An' faster than 'ee too.”

“We'll see,” Arthur said, pulling his gaze from Merlin's, pushing down the twinge he felt for him. It was nothing. Nothing he could pay attention to considering that Merlin was his farmhand, a dependent, and one who wasn't experiencing the same chaos of feeling as Arthur was. “Shall we?” 

They swam together, gliding along the surface, head down, spray in their nostrils, and then under, the water fresh and crisp, tugging their bodies forwards and into the open sea. When the currents got stronger, Merlin dove, pushing downwards to a place that was deep and and dark with the twilight of the deep. With a heave of sinew, Arthur plunged too. Merlin was little more than a shadow to him then, crowned by a halo coming from the surface, fending water lithe and liquid, his movements streamlined.

They broke surface close to the rocks that cut off the bay, circling each other, floating on their backs, backstroking awhile, arms and legs pumping slow, when at all. When their skin wrinkled and the sun lowered a notch in the sky, they front-crawled back towards land. 

At last, rubber-legged, Arthur dragged himself onto the beach, the rush of the waves in his ears, the embrace of the sun on his back. From behind he watched Merlin wade a path into the thin sand, arms gleaming, muscles working under his skin. He laid himself down on a wet strip of shoreline and Arthur sprawled down next to him, not close enough to feel his body warmth, but near enough to be aware of his bulk, of his presence, of the in and out of his breathing.

He didn't look at him, couldn't quite, but stared at the sky, at lean stripes of cloud scuttling past. 

“Do 'ee do this regular like?”

“What, swim?” Arthur turned his head just a little, sand sticking to his wet hair. “Yes. No. Not since the day I got back. When I learned my father had...” It was a painful topic, one he didn't want to discuss today, not for fear of experiencing sorrow or because he thought Merlin wouldn't understand, but because he'd come here to put a smile on his face. Bringing Merlin down with talk of death and loss wasn't what he'd come here to do. “But I used to. Before going to war, I would go for a swim round Trevena bay. Sometimes I would strike out further afield. Find a cove and explore it in every direction.”

“Sounds like fun,” Merlin said, an odd little quirk lifting the corner of his lips. “How did 'ee learn?”

“To swim?”

Merlin shrugged a nod.

Arthur chuckled at the strangeness of the memory. “My father and I were on a boat – I still have it by the way, docked in Trevena bay. I was six or seven and was enjoying the day out at sea. We didn't get to do it too often and it was so sunny it was blinding. The horizon was white with it.” Father didn't love having sand or dirt on him, or for his skin to itch with the rash of a burn. He rather preferred the pristine confines of a drawing room. “As I said it was a rare occasion, but that day we were out and about and I was shaking with joy at the thought of it, of being there with my father.” Father had never been remiss as a parent, but he had been, Arthur could tell now, remote. “I was so intent on goggling at the expanse of the sea before me and at the view of Trevena House from far out, that I was surprised when Father stood, grabbed me by the shirt and threw me overboard.”

“What?” Merlin made a noise that was half a chuckle, half a shriek of indignation. 

“I made a big splash and had salt on my tongue and in my nose. It stung my throat devilishly. But Father wasn't fazed. He shouted out instructions, told me what to do,” Arthur said, still remembering them word for word. “At first I flailed and panicked. But then I made myself listen and before long I was swimming.”

“Well, that be a way to learn.” Merlin turned on his side, his elbow under him, his knee bent. “Why did 'e do it like that?”

“Because I was a gentleman,” Arthur said, echoing a speech he'd heard years ago. “And when gentlemen have an objective they follow through, without a fuss.”

Merlin's mouth twitched and Arthur saw his expression brighten. “E must 'ave been something, the old Mr Pendragon.”

“He was.” Arthur nodded. The old lancing pain at the thought of his father's death was no longer keen. The wound had closed and the probing of it didn't hurt. If anything, he could bring himself to remember him without any bright gush of pain. “Complicated and perhaps hard. But he was a good father.”

Merlin's brow darkened. “An' if 'e wasn't, would ee have missed 'im the same? Loved 'im the same?”

“That's an unanswerable question, Merlin,” Arthur said, knowing he had to weigh his answer, because Merlin had sounded so serious when he'd asked. “It's all what ifs. My father had his faults and plenty of them.” Admitting that was the case came hard; it still was something Arthur felt he shouldn't do. But knowing that Merlin was his audience made it easier, somehow. Perhaps that was because Merlin had never met his father or because he never judged harshly anyway. “But he was an upright man.”

Merlin's face crumpled. His lower lip stuck out and creases came to line the space between his eyes. “But if 'ee was not? Do ee...” He mangled his lower lip with his front tooth. “Do ee always forgive a father?”

“Are we talking about yours now?” Arthur had never dared ask Merlin about his past, about the abandonment that was part of it. “Are we talking about his leaving you?”

Merlin pushed up so he was sitting, a fistful of sand in his hand. “No.”

Arthur could tell that wasn't the whole truth. Merlin's eyes were a-swim with tears he wasn't crying. His brow had more furrows than a field during sowing season. “Merlin.”

“Yes.” Merlin breathed harshly, his nostrils quivering, his mouth parting for it. “But that don't matter now. Because 'e went; 'e went away so long ago.”

Arthur cupped Merlin's neck, his tendons shifting under Arthur's touch when he swallowed. “It doesn't matter how long ago it was.” Merlin's father was likely long dead and buried by now but that didn't mean that Merlin had worked out all that that meant to him. “You can grieve your loss Merlin.”

“I thought I didn't hate 'im.” Merlin inhaled loudly, with a little grunt of pain at the end. “But per'aps I do. I don't rightly know.”

Arthur thought he understood. “I harboured a lot of resentment towards my father over the years. Over Guinevere. Over his plans for me. For the most part I never got to talk to him about it. But I didn't hate him and perhaps it's the same for you.”

Merlin's nostrils flared; his eyes filmed. “I want ee to be right.” 

Arthur didn't think Merlin was cut out to harbour negative feelings, not like this. He was a creature of light, a man with a ready smile that genuinely reflected his emotions. “I'm always right.”

That put a smile in Merlin's eyes. “'Ee be modest above all.”

They both huffed, Merlin touched his fingers to Arthur's hand. It was a light, shaky touch, not as assured as Merlin's wielding of sickle and hoe was. It reminded Arthur of their relative positions so he removed his hand from Merlin's neck. 

With clouds crowding the sun, and this late in the season, the temperature dropped. They stood to get dressed. Merlin brushed his hair in front of his eyes and dropped his gaze. Arthur tore his away too, pulling on shirt and breeches without bothering to tuck one into the other. His coat and waistcoat he slung over his shoulder.

The sun beginning its descent, they climbed onto higher ground, coming onto the coastal track that skimmed Trebarwith. The sea shone bright on one side and on the other grass and gorse unrolled. Out in the bay a ship was being towed by another vessel, thick ropes stretched taut between them. The ship being hauled across the sound was a brigantine; the other a sloop of war.

Merlin stopped and looked out to sea. “What be all that ado?”

Arthur came to a halt beside him. “Perhaps the brigantine sprang a leak?”

“Yes.” Merlin shaded his eyes with his hand. “Yes, per'aps.”

They veered towards the interior, taking a road that cut across a hamlet formed by moss-thatched cottages and that spilled onto the other side of it and onto open moor. They were two miles from Trevena when they saw the column. A dozen men walked abreast of each other, their uniforms bright red, their buttons and muskets shining in the sun. An officer on horseback led them onwards. 

When the column came upon Arthur and Merlin, the officer reined in his horse, sat straighter in his saddle, turned his nose up at Arthur's attire, and said, “My good man, what is the quickest road to Truro?”

“Not this one most certainly,” Arthur said, stepping backwards when the horse pranced. “You're moving in the opposite direction as a matter of fact.”

Upon hearing Arthur's civil answer and educated tones, the officer – a captain going by his epaulettes – became less overbearing. His body slumped out of his puffed up stance and, aware of his faux pas, he toyed nervously with his bridle. “I'd be much obliged if you could point me in the right one, sir.” He pointed his boots in the stirrups. “We are on an errand of the utmost importance and need to speak to the Justice of the Peace as soon as may be.”

“Why?” Merlin asked, his accent coming thick with the alarm in his voice. “What happened that 'ee need the magistrate?”

The captain looked Merlin up and down with a measure of disdain Arthur hated him for, then said, “Noting to be concerned over, lad. On the contrary, from now on locals will be able to sleep safer in their beds.”

It hadn't occurred to Arthur to do it before, but now he connected the sight of the towed brigantine with the presence of the militia in the county. “You're here for the smugglers.”

“Yes,” the Captain said, squaring his shoulders. “We have their ship. It was hidden in Trebarwith cove, behind the promontory. The ship was abandoned and in ill-repair, but it's a only matter of time before we round up the wretches who used it themselves.”

“Ee mean to lure 'em into a trap.” Merlin's faced stiffened and his mouth went thin.

“I can't talk about that, young man,” the Captain said. “But I can assure you we won't leave an inch of country uncombed.” He turned to Arthur. “Now, as you may suspect, sir, we're in a hurry, if you could be so kind as to give us directions?”

Arthur told the Captain what he had to do to get to Truro as swiftly as possible. Without the aid of maps and with the Captain new to the neighbourhood, it wasn't so easy, but by and by Arthur thought the officer had got it. As the convo between Arthur and the Captain continued, Merlin walked off and sat on a boulder with his feet planted wide apart and his head in his hands. When Arthur finished and parted company with the militiamen, the Captain and his column having marched off in a kick-up of dust, he rejoined Merlin. 

His expression had hardened with an emotion Arthur couldn't pick apart, the strands of it tangling in the lines forming on his face. 

At sight of him, Arthur's shoulders sagged. Today's outing, it seemed, had served little purpose. Even so he said, “Come on, Merlin, race you to the house.”

For the first time since he'd known him, Merlin didn't pick him up on the challenge.


	16. The Warning

The night was dark and the rain came down in steady crashes. It was a drumbeat on the roof. It was a whiplash among the trees and bushes, whose leaves whispered loud in the night, bending and buckling under the onslaught of the squall. It was a shower of bullets that drove pits in the soil, pinpricks like scars of the earth. Thunderclap merged into thunderclap. 

Merlin flung himself away from the window and onto the bed, sitting with his legs folded under him and the top blanket draped across his shoulders. He hummed and wrung his hands. He bounced his knees up down and rumpled fistfuls of coverlet. He gnawed his lip and ran his hands through his hair.

When lightning brightened his room, he cast his blanket off. He bent over, took one of his carvings from his satchel, and toyed with it, fingering its contours. It was a fox made from soft pale wood, his second best piece after the owl he'd given Arthur. He could see the faults in it, the too square angles, the lack of fluidity in its lines, especially at the haunches and tail, the excessive tapering of some its parts. But he could also take stock of the things he'd done well, appreciate the suppleness of the animal's form, its lively expression, the semblance of movement he'd given its inert shape. He clapped his fist shut and pocketed it. With the object nestled deep in the folds of his clothes, he tucked half his shirt into his trousers, and picked up sturdy boots he didn't put on but carried by their entwined laces. He made the landing. 

Light shone from under Arthur's door. There was a chance he was still awake, dutifully going over the mine's account books. Ever since Wheal Ygraine had opened, Arthur had poured a lot of his attention into it. Knowing him, he was likely to still be working, late hour or no. If Arthur was awake, odds were he could hear Merlin gadding about. The house was old and creaky and Merlin not the most graceful person. 

Still, Merlin had to take a risk.

Barefoot, he crossed the landing. Hands off the banister for noise minimisation, he took the stairs down a step at a time, putting as little weight behind the motion as he could.

The last stair tread creaking and bowing when he stepped on it, Merlin froze, holding his breath. He paused for a full minute, expecting Arthur to come striding down the hallway upstairs, demanding where he was going, or for a light to flare up downstairs. Nothing happened. Merlin got down the last few treads.

The fire in the parlour had long been banked and the air smelled like cinder and ashes. Everything was dark, nooks and crannies steeped in the deepest inky shadows, and the door to Gaius and Alice's room was shut.

Merlin took Gaius' oilskin from the rack at the door, put on his shoes, and rushed into the pouring rain of the yard. This time he didn't bother with caution. He dashed across the front drive and took the road that plunged between crags and bottomed out at the beach. 

The wind came at him in gusts, knocking him sideways, lashing at his face, and throwing grit in his eyes. To avoid this barrage, he lowered his head and made of his eyes slits. From time to time he had to wipe his face dry and his eyes clean, but trying to keep it all out was futile, so he gave up and proceeded half-blind. With the hills cloaked in mist and dark clouds obscuring the moon, visibility was low either way, so it didn't much matter.

The track was over-run with mud. It shifted from under him in slabs, moving him forward and sideways. He surfed the river of detritus until his soles lost purchase and he slipped and fell. He scraped his hands bloody, trickles of it oozing from the palms, and tore his trousers at the knee, his bones smarting from the impact. With the rain battering his back and drenching him to the bone, he picked himself up. There was no going back.

Knowing he could do little to control his descent, he slid the rest of the way down, barely keeping vertical by way of grabbing at the rock face. New cuts opened on his palms but he could barely feel their sting he was so cold. 

Finally, he got to the beach. Lifting a storm of sand, he ran to the cave, calling out, “Anyone there?”

His voice echoed around the mouth of the tunnel, coming back to him with a hollowness that sounded alien. Getting no response, he tore forwards, making a raket and not caring much. 

He stumbled into the rock hewn chamber more by luck than because he'd remembered the way. 

The light of a small fire set the bodies of the smugglers aglow. Merlin counted eight of them including Balinor and Aithusa. Percival and another two men whose names he couldn't remember were missing. Never mind that; he'd account for them later. “'Ee all have to go,” he said, his breath coming so fast he sounded like a dying nag. “Now.”

Balinor rose to his feet. “What are you doing here, boy! I thought we had an agreement.”

Merlin waited to get his breathing under control before he spoke again. “The militia be close. I ran into a column today.”

“What! Where was this?” Balinor's mouth tightened. “When exactly?”

“This very afternoon,” Merlin said, trying to sound logical over the storm of conflicting emotions that was raging inside him. “A few miles from 'ere, maybe three.”

“And they're coming this way?”

“Yes.” They hadn't said as much but if they hadn't been joking about combing the countryside, then they'd check Trevena Bay too. “An' they 'ave yer ship. They be guarding it. Waiting for 'ee to get back to it so they can nab 'ee.”

“Why should we believe him?” Aithusa rose to her feet and looked from Merlin to Balinor. “Why should we trust him?”

The other smugglers mumbled assent at Aithusa's words.

So buoyed, she continued. “It's a trap! It must be.”

“No.” Merlin swept his hands about in denial. “It ain't one. Why would I lie?”

“To play us.” Aithusa's face toughened. “To get us all in the nick and hanging by the noose by the time the next assizes are round!”

Merlin really couldn't believe they'd think him so stupid as to walk into the lion's den for the second time around when he had nothing to gain by it. Did they think he was in the militia's pay? That he'd sink that low? “Oh but 'ee be stubborn. If I'd wanted to, ee would 'ave long been a-rotting in Bodmin Jail. Instead 'ee all be 'ere, safe and sound.” That wouldn't be for long if they didn't heed his words though. “I be telling 'ee, the red coats be coming.”

Aithusa pointed the gun that had been at her belt at him. “I don't believe you. I have no reason to.”

“Aithusa!” Balinor roared her name. “Shoot and you're no longer one of us.”

“But this is a trap. He's a decoy, trying to lure us out!” Holding it steadily aimed at Merlin, she cocked her pistol. “He has no reason to help us. Why would he be doing it?”

Though he'd been mulling over them for days, speaking the words hurt inside, left him with little breath and a brittle spot in place of his heart. “Because 'ee be me father,” he told Balinor.

Balinor gasped, his fists working open and closed. “I thought... I thought you looked like her. When I first saw you, I thought you did. That's why I spared you, boy. I told myself I was seeing things, that I was growing soft in my old age. But I still did it. And yet, as much as....” He shrugged, a defeated expression flashing on his face. “It can't be. I have no children.”

“Why can't it be?” There was room for doubt, Merlin was aware. The link was tenuous at best. And yet he knew deep in his bones that he had it right. “Why can't ee be?”

“I went back to her village,” Balinor said, his voice low, his words slow in coming. “Some eight years after I'd left it. There was no one. I thought she'd moved on, married another.”

Merlin has always wanted to hear words like that, to be told that he'd at least been worth a second try, but now he did they only tasted bitter. “She was pregnant when 'ee left and never married again. I told 'ee she died.” Merlin had never dared ask why she'd never tied the knot, though he suspected she'd loved Merlin's father so much she hadn't been able to let it go. “'Ee must 'ave come to Helston after that. ”

“But why did nobody tell me?” Balinor said, his eyes wide and pained. “Why did no one tell me I had a child?”

Merlin had no real answer for that though he could guess. “Maybe they judged 'ee. Farming folk can be 'ard and unforgivin'. Maybe they thought it served ee right for begetting chi'l out o' wedlock.”

“But what about you?” Balinor shook his head. “Who raised you, boy?”

It was a secret Merlin had never shared with anyone. People tended to judge, to think you had to have done something wrong and be guilty of some moral crime to hit such a low, so he hadn't told anyone about it.

“The first few days after she died, they gave me food,” Merlin said. “But I couldn't live on the good will of me neighbours that long. They sent me to the workhouse.”

“The workhouse.” Balinor's face drained of colour. “The--”

“Aye.” The memories had never left Merlin. The soullessness of the place, the inhumanity. They had worked a taint in him he was still working to erase. “The spike. It don't matter how 'ee want to call it.”

“Balinor, you can't believe him,” Aithusa said, to a murmur of approval from the other members of the crew. “He heard my story and embroidered upon it so as to gain your trust.”

“Aithusa,” Balinor said, holding a hand up.

“This way you'll be eating out of his hand and he can have you arrested without you putting up a fight.” She gave him big eyes. “He's banding these words about but he's not your son. Think about it: how could he even know you're his father?”

Merlin didn't want to argue or belabour the point or tell these people what he really felt. It would have been like cutting himself open and showing them his insides. He hadn't even told Arthur, it wasn't for them to probe at. But he had come here for a reason and he wouldn't go until they had all the facts. “I saw 'is carvings. I carve just like 'im. Because I modelled myself after 'im.” And wasn't that pitiful too in a way, that he should have taken to his father's ways like a blind puppy even while knowing of his desertion?

“'E went, but left 'is things behind, 'is collection. When I went a-stumbling over 'em the other day, I knew.” He took a big breath and showed Balinor the figure he'd stashed in his pocket back at the house. “And 'e may be me father, but I didn't tell 'im to make friends. I don't want to be because 'e walked away and left me to rot in the grubber. I were a child. I couldn't even fend for meself proper like.” 

He fixed Aithusa with his stare though his was wobbly and tear-filmed with the weight of his past. “I couldn't go head to head with the adults. Fight for me food or come out on top when there were a fisticuffs.” He paused, sank into the memory of it. He still remembered the fights, tall pallid shadows scrambling over scraps of meat so lean they could be called cold bone, fingers digging into strips of marrow so old it stank. 

He could recall the place itself too. The wide endless façade, the institutional grey of its walls. And its inhabitants. They'd been lifeless, shuffling about with their heads down, their eyes wan, with the fires of life banked. Merlin had always thought those were workhouse eyes. 

“The guardians was no help. They only cared if 'ee did something wrong an' they could tell ee off for it. Punish ee. Make an example.” The rap of a ruler on his knuckles had been the equivalent of getting out of a scrape practically scot-free. Caning was worse. Your back would smart for days and you couldn't sleep, your breathing coming quick and raspy with the pain of it. “If if wasn't for old Kilgey, I wouldn't 'ave made it out of there.” Not in one piece at least. “So, no, I 'ave no reason to make friends. But I can't let 'im – can't let 'ee all die.”

There were murmurings, sounds of approval, someone repeated Kilgey's name with awe, murmuring something about the Dragon of the Seven Seas. But Merlin couldn't pay attention to that, to whatever else they were saying. He matched gazes with Balinor and saw Balinor's eyes soften. He touched the fox Merlin was cradling in his palms, grazed a finger along the line of its body, its paws. “You're Hunith's son.”

“Aye.” Merlin swallowed against the tightness in his throat. It didn't lift but then again he didn't think it would. “That I be, and proud.”

“You're my son,” Balinor said, stroking the wooden animal's head, all the while spearing Merlin with his intent gaze. “You're my boy.”

“Balinor,” Aithusa said, her scrutiny of Merlin hard-eyed, “even if that is true, odds are he's only trying to get back at you. He said so himself. He has no reason to want you safe.”

“Why don't 'ee believe me?” Merlin asked Aithusa. “We be the same, ee and me.”

“I--” Aithusa faltered; her shoulders took a dip. “I'm protecting my gang, the people who watch my back every day.”

“And that be fine.” Merlin got owing loyalty, forming bonds. “But I bain't lying.”

“I believe you,” Balinor said, dropping his hands by his sides. “I believe you.”

Merlin's ears rang, his legs felt hollow and his spine like butter. “I--” He'd dreamed of a moment like this for such a long time. As a kid he'd used to picture how meeting his father would be like, what kind of man he'd be, what Merlin himself would say to him. When his mother had died, he'd sat in their empty cottage for days, the door open, watching the wind strip the plot in front of his house bare while he waited for a father he knew would never come. “Good. Good.” He bowed his head. “What are 'ee going to do then? 

Balinor shook his head, opened his mouth to speak, but didn't actually do it, not until a few long seconds had passed. “If the authorities have our ship, then we won't be able to re-take it by force, not with our numbers.”

“But ee must escape!” Merlin had heard the militia talk. They had seemed so dead set on flushing out the smugglers. “The whole county is unsafe for 'ee.”

Bawdin said, “Aye, Balinor's boy's right.”

“We need to make sail for Brittany,” Balinor said, “but I doubt any passenger ship will take us on. Not if the Militia's on the look-out for us.”

“You're not suggesting we split, are you?” Aithusa touched her hand to Balinor's arm. “We're a team, a crew. We can't part ways.”

“First of all we need to wait for Percival and the others to come back.” Balinor put a hand to his temple. “Once they're back, we'll make a plan.”

“But without a ship,” Bawdin said, finding the hole in Balinor's proposition Merlin had already been aware of, “we're doomed.”

“Per'aps I can help 'ee with that,” Merlin said, thinking fast. “But I can't be proper sure right now. Give me a few hours though and I'll let 'ee know.”

Balinor nodded. “Alright, we'll wait.”

“Balinor,” Aithusa said, but there was no fire to her eyes or tone.

“We have to wait for Percival's return anyway.” Balinor put a hand on her shoulder. “If the boy can find us a boat in the meanwhile, we're saved. If not, nothing will have changed.”

Aithusa inclined her head. “I pray he does find one then.”

“Right then.” Merlin knew that he had to go and act fast. Under the cover of the storm, he could move about safely enough. Surely, the Red Coats would be busy sheltering from the downpour rather than searching the country for smugglers. That, however, didn't mean he had an eternity at his disposal. “I'd better go get yer boat.”

“Wait,” said Balinor. “I'll walk you out.”

The cave unfolded in the darkness, its tunnels narrowing as they put distance between themselves and the rock chamber. It converged into a side shaft that yawned open between pillars of stone. The sloped walls bounced most of the sound outward and Balinor's voice echoed when he spoke. “I didn't know.”

“Of course 'ee didn't.” Merlin kept his gaze focused ahead. There wasn't much that he could see aside from lingering shadows, but it was better than looking at Balinor and fuelling the chaos of conflicting emotions that were toying with him. “Why should 'ee?”

“If I had known, a lot would have been different, I promise you,” Balinor told him, his voice sombre. “The workhouse too. I--”

“It be alright.” It weren't that bad.” Merlin found that all the words he thought he'd wanted to say had dried up in his gullet. “Bygones be bygones.”

“Boy--”

“It be Merlin,” Merlin said, quickening his step. “The name she gave me.”

“She would choose such a name.”

Merlin sniffed. “Don't.”

“Merlin.” 

Merlin flexed his shoulders and turned around. “I can see the end of the tunnel. I can go alone now.”

Balinor's shoulders drooped; his whole body, which Merlin had thought of as large and imposing, diminished.

“I'll let 'ee know about the boat soon,” Merlin said and, without looking back, plunged into the heart of the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grubber is slang for workhouse. Such places were also colloquially called 'the spike'.


	17. Insistent Knocking

Rain battered the window and made the panes shake in their frames. Lightning bolts zigzagged across the sky, bright flares of pale light, followed by crashes of deafening thunder. The wind howled across the park, whispering between the trees, whipping at their branches, making them waggle in the gale. It stripped them of their leaves and broke off their tenderest off-shoots.

Gwen pulled the curtains and draped her shawl more firmly around her shoulders. It was only silk and no shield against the chill, but the wool wraps were in the trunks they hadn't unpacked yet and thus hard to get. “What weather, eh,” Gwen said, pushing her shoulders up and knotting the fabric at her bosom. “It will kill all my flowers.”

“Makes you glad to be inside, doesn't it?” Lancelot said, drawing the blanket away to make space for her on the bed. “I just hope no one's at sea now.”

“Indeed.” Chased away from the vicinity of the window by a clap of thunder, Gwen scuttled into bed. “Hopefully, everybody's safe at home right now.”

Lancelot turned his head and smiled at her. It was a gentle smile, one that made his lips appear soft and his gaze tender. “Like us.”

Gwen returned his grin. “Like us.”

Lancelot had started leaning towards her for a kiss, the musk of him in her nostrils, when a fierce pounding resounded from downstairs. 

Gwen jumped. “What was that noise?”

“Someone's at the door,” Lancelot said, tossing the blankets off him and dashing out of bed.

“Lancelot.” Gwen grabbed his hand as he skirted her side of it. “Don't. We don't know who it could be at this hour.”

The ramming on the door continued unabated. There was shaking and rattling and the creaking of wooden panels within their mahogany frame.

“It could be someone needing help,” Lancelot said, squeezing her hand. “I need to check this out.”

Gwen listened to the sounds coming from downstairs with a frown on her brow and misgiving in her heart. Though she wished them silenced, they increased in frequency, becoming a low thundering whose vibrations she could feel in her skin. “Lancelot, it could be anyone.” She arched an eyebrow, making sure to convey her unease. “It's not worth the risk.”

Voices meshed with the pummelling, high-pitched voices that had the treble of alarm about them.

“I have to go and see this through.” Lancelot opened the bedside drawer and picked up a sharp letter opener that could easily double as a knife. It was long and pointed, with a blood red jewel at the base, and keen sides that could slice through flesh. He put it in her hands. “Just in case.”

Before she could call him back, he'd crossed the room and exited it. 

Gwen heard the sound of his footfall as he went down the stairs and then the clap of his soles on the floor of the hallway.

“A moment, a moment.” Though his tone hadn't amounted to a full blown shout, Lancelot had raised his voice to say that. “I'm nearly there.”

Lightning brightened the room Gwen was in as though it were daylight. The force of the wind blew the window open, rattling the glass and sending the curtains fluttering inwards. The candle began to gutter, eerie silhouettes playing on the walls, before going out. 

Voices filled the house, low, powerful, masculine voices.

Holding tightly onto the letter opener, Gwen flew out of bed and onto the landing. She was barefoot and the marble flagstones were cold, but she had no intention of going back to her room to retrieve her slippers. She needed to know what was going on, whether there was danger lurking in her house. Even if she put no stock in weaponry and rather more in the power of peaceful dealings, she clutched at the letter opener. With a shudder, she made herself go on, step after step, until she'd reached the balustrade. 

The first and second floor ones jutted over the hallway so she could see the entrance and a section of the passageway that led into the east and west wings. 

Sefa, buried under two chequered shawls, was holding an oil lantern up. It cast a yellow glow that went from the foot of the stairs to the doorway. A dozen men in regimentals crowded its vicinity, one huddled close to the other, their golden epaulettes brushing. Their hair stuck to their skulls and necks in wet strands. The red of their uniforms bled crimson from water-logging. Raindrops trickled from their earlobes and from the tip of their bayonets.

“We were on our way to Truro,” said the foremost man, the one with the most medals on his chest. “But had to stop because of the weather. We tried to set off again a while later but this is as far as we've managed to come. I must beg for shelter for myself and my men, sir.”

“But of course, Captain,” Lancelot said, his voice full of gravity and kindness. “My house is your house.”

“I do apologise for the racket.” The Captain stood with his chest thrust out and his legs wide apart. “But I only saw danger in continuing on the road as we were.”

“Do not apologise.” Lancelot invited the men further inside with a gesture of his hand. “I would have done just the same.”

“We'll take the stables or the sheds,” the Captain said. “We don't wish to trouble you.”

“Putting you up for the night will be no trouble at all.” Lancelot looked to Sefa. “Sefa, could you please prepare three rooms for our guests?”

“Sir.” Sefa made a curtsey, then scuttled up the stairs towards Gwen. When she saw her, she made a bob and added, “Madam.”

Lamp in hand, she disappeared down the passageway, arcs of light fanning outwards as she moved.

“Let me accompany you upstairs, gentlemen,” said Lancelot, backing towards the staircase. “I'm sure the fire in the blue drawing room will still be going.”

The Captain hedged. “Sir, please, I wouldn't want to inconvenience you.”

“I would think myself a remiss host if I didn't at least get you warm.” Lancelot spared a glance for the trembling Militiamen bunched together in the background.

“In which case, sir, I thank you on behalf of my men.”

The Militiamen filed upstairs and joined her on the first floor landing. When their realised she was in her nightgown, They all looked at their feet. Their captain, however, was bolder. Though he didn't glance away upon sight of her flimsy garment, he focused on her face, kissed her hand, and apologised for intruding on her domesticity. Attempting not to act as though she was covered in nothing more than lace and silk, Gwen inclined her head and said, “I'm glad you we could provide you with shelter.”

“Thank you, ma'am.” The captain bowed and clicked his boots together. “Unfortunately this weather is fit for neither man nor beast.”

“No indeed.” Gwen took her conversational cues from the captain. “No. It certainly isn't.”

“Thankfully, however,” the Captain said, “every cloud has a silver lining.”

“And what may it be in this case?” Gwen tilted her head.

“It's stopping us from getting to Truro,” the Captain said, “but it's also stopping the smugglers we intend to capture from flaking off.”

“I see.” So Vivian hadn't been wrong when she'd said the military weren't far off. Her father had really got the militia involved. “I'm relieved to hear the weather hasn't thwarted your goals.”

“Not I.” The Captain's face lost its veneer of formality in favour of a tense expression. “Smugglers are the lowest sort of criminals. I don't intend to let them play me.”

“No, of course not.”

As Lancelot herded their impromptu guest into the other room, Gwen went to hers to change. Though she didn't bother to pin her hair up in anything but the most simple bun, she put on on a fresh dress and covered it with a black and gold shawl. 

By the time she made it to the blue drawing room, the soldiers were much drier and less grey in the face than before. Probably out of fear of staining the upholstery, none of them was sitting, though they had all, bar their Captain, flocked close to the fireplace.

The Captain was saying, “I was hoping to get to Mr Justice Blyant by nightfall so he could sign my search warrants directly but alas the whole thing is going to have be postponed.”

“Were you intending to search houses too, Captain Bedivere?” Lancelot asked. 

“Yes.” Captain Bedivere bobbed his head firmly. “These smugglers can't have been around for so long without receiving some measure of local help. I intend to find proof of this.”

“You mean to say that someone is sheltering them?” Gwen asked, moving to sit opposite the captain. “That locals would dare go against the law?”

“Maybe they wouldn't go so far as sheltering them in their homes,” Captain Bedivere said, “but offering them aid, lying for them, trading with them? I think they would.”

Lancelot nodded. “That sounds like a reasonable supposition. There's a lot to be gained from under the table deals. ”

“Indeed.”

“I suppose, Captain, that you're on the lookout for clues as to their presence in the district?” Gwen arched an eyebrow.

“Oh, yes.” The captain went on in spite of the rumble of faraway thunder nearly drowning his voice. “I intend to gather as much intelligence as possible.”

“And once you have it?” Lancelot asked, looking a shade concerned. 

“I'll commence a thorough search of the county.” The Captain got a far away look in his eyes as though he was already envisioning his next move. “Starting with Trevena and fanning out both southwards and northwards.”

“Trevena?” Gwen imagined Arthur would love to help the Militia. With his sense of justice, he would be eager to. “Why there of all places?”

“We found their ship lying at anchor in Trebarwith bay,” the Captain said. “And Trevena lies suitably close to be a good starting point.”

Gwen was about to mention Arthur, when Sefa knocked on the door. “The rooms are ready, your honours.”

“Thank you, Sefa,” Gwen said. “Have you lit a fire in each?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Sefa lowered her head. “And turned down the beds.”

“Perfect.” Gwen stood and turned to the Militiamen. “Gentlemen, if you'll be so kind as to follow Sefa, you'll find your rooms are ready for the night. You'll have to share, I'm afraid, but the chambers are large.”

“I trust the accommodation will be perfect.” Captain Bedivere strode over and kissed her hand. “Good night, madam.” He bowed to Lancelot. “Sir.”

Gwen was already half asleep, when the mattress dipped and Lancelot kissed her forehead. Blinking her drowsiness off, she rolled onto her side and smiled at him. “You know,” she said, caressing his cheek. This late at night it was rough with stubble, his face shadowed with it, but she enjoyed the feel of it, the scratchiness of it. “Those Red Coats scared me so with their furious knocking but I'm glad we could put them up. I wouldn't have wanted them roaming the moors in this weather.”

Outside the rain was falling as steadily as before, its crashing a steady roar. It was landing heavily on the stone surface of the terrace giving onto the garden. The noise had its own particular quality and rhythm, much like a kettledrum prelude to a sound allegro. Raindrops beat wildly against the stone balustrade too, providing a steady counterpoint. 

“Nor I.” Lancelot smiled. “Most of all, I'm in love with your generosity.”

“I did nothing.” Gwen ran a hand up Lancelot's bare arm, feeling the muscle there and the warmth of his skin. “Really, Lancelot. You're being too liberal with your praise.”

“In spite of the late hour and the fright they gave you, you welcomed those militiamen with the warmest of smiles,” Lancelot said, kissing her mouth lingeringly. “Put them at their ease. Not many people would have done that.”

“I'm glad I could help.” She caught his lips between hers, his a softness Gwen wanted to cushion her mouth against. “But enough with all this talk of soldiers and smugglers. Kiss me again.”

“Willingly, my love, willingly.”


	18. Late Night Visit

With the oil lamp extinguished, it was only lightning that lit up the room from time to time. It did so in harsh flares tinged with blue-white and in segments that flashed hot gold. They glowed against his eyelids, an after impression like the sun's, and threw his eyes out of focus. Their reflection careened across the walls and glinted off the gilded mirrors decorating one side of the chamber in a light play all its own.

Thunder crashed and crashed, vibrations skittering in the air.

Sleep eluding him, Arthur sat up in bed, and piled pillows at his back. He considered lighting a candle and picking up a book, but knew the first would gutter with the draft and the second wouldn't hold his attention long. 

With the air so heavy from the spark of thunder and static tension, Arthur couldn't quite breathe. A pall sat on his chest, heavy and persistent, like lead sheets stacked on his ribcage. He tossed off his covers and made for the window. He was about to lift the sash and get a lashing of wind and rain in the face, when there was a tap on the door.

“Come in,” he said.

It was Merlin. He was no more than a shadow in the doorway, the lines of him smudging into the dusk of the hallway. He stepped into a pool of light from the window, his body angles standing out, his shoulders pushed back into a straight broad line, his chin up at a sharp tilt. He was holding onto some object Arthur couldn't make out the shape of.

At sight of him, Arthur swallowed hard, his heart jumping a fair amount of beats. “Yes?” He couldn't say more, not when his skin was knitting in goose flesh at the thought Merlin had to have a special reason come to his room at this lonely hour, when the house was drenched in the hush of night. What other grounds could he have other than seeking intimacy? The possibility felt real, with a tangibility shaped by sense memories of the day they'd spent out on Trebarwith Beach, Merlin's body steeped in sunlight, warm and solid, hovering so close to his they'd seemed on a collision course.

“I--” The door closed behind Merlin. “Did I disturb 'ee?”

“No.” Arthur couldn't think, couldn't process the hope that bloomed into his heart and took the air from his lungs. He couldn't come out with a plan of action that would tell him how to best act, how to come out of this with his constituent parts intact and his honour in place. He was too steeped in the moment to. “As you can see, I was wide awake.”

Merlin exhaled and the sound echoed in the hush between rolls of thunder. “I need to talk to 'ee.”

“What about?” Arthur made his question short. He wouldn't trust himself with long speeches. Not when he knew where duty lay and how little he wanted to stick to it.

“There be somethin' I...” Merlin's voice broke. “Somethin' I need to talk about that won't make 'ee happy.”

Arthur should stop Merlin, nip this in the bud. He should voice his objections before Merlin could say something they would both regret. That way they could go on as they were, living according to the rhythms of the house and the land. But he couldn't. If there was a next step to take, then he would. If Merlin was willing, had come to him because he wanted to, then Arthur would capitulate, ignore all the objections one could raise to a liaison such as the one between them would be. “Well?”

Merlin shuffled forwards, the object in his hand glinting. “That time when 'ee thought I be a-lyin', I weren't. There be smugglers in the cove.” He placed the cutlass he was wielding flat in his palms.

Arthur blanked of thought for a single moment. Then he tamped down on the pain that severed his heart from its strings and said, “What?”

“There be smugglers in Trevena Cove.” Merlin said it slowly this time, measuring the words, doling them out with a care for their import. “An' one of them be me father.”

Arthur frowned at Merlin. “I don't--” This made no sense at all. Merlin had said he was practically an orphan. Even today, he'd purported as much. “Your father is dead. Or at least gone.”

“I thought so too.” Merlin stepped into the light from the window. His eyes crinkled in anguish and he bit his lips bloodless. “When I went a-looking for the smugglers, it was to prove I were true to 'ee.” He smiled. “I 'ad nought else on me mind. I wanted 'ee to see I were no liar and loyal only to ee'.” Merlin's throat worked. “But then I saw their leader, talked to 'im. Found out about 'is carvings. They be like those I do meself. He be my father.”

Arthur took the cutlass from Merlin. It was a fine weapon, crafted for heavy-duty use, rather than as an ornament. It had a basket hilt with a pommel nut screwed onto the tang and a finely edged iron blade that was nicked at the sides with proof of its use. It was nothing Merlin could have laid his hands on unless its possessor had given it to him. But that didn't mean the man was his father. If the smugglers were – after all – real, it followed the sword came from them. But that didn't mean one of them was Merlin's father. They had to be lying. Maybe they were trying to play Merlin. “Merlin, how can you tell? A few carvings surely aren't proof.”

“'E spoke about me mother,” Merlin said. “Said 'er name an' all.”

Arthur didn't see how that could be a coincidence. “And the facts bear out?”

Merlin's chest deflated. “Aye, they do.”

Merlin was savvy enough. If he'd checked and thought it all jelled then Arthur couldn't be sceptical any longer. “And you're positive he deals in contraband goods?”

“Yes.” Merlin cast his head down. “I saw them with me own eyes.”

Arthur sighed hard. “Merlin, I frankly don't know what to say.”

Merlin nodded his understanding, his face crumpling in a sea of worry lines. “It be hard to wrap one's head' around, ain't it?”

If Arthur's own roots were a mystery to him, he'd do something to establish the truth. “Yes.”

“An' ee see 'ow I must do something. The man is me father and the Red Coats be after him.”

That was Arthur's cue for noticing how wet Merlin's hair was and how sodden and dirty his clothes were. There were cuts on his hands that had scarcely began to heal. They fanned outwards and side by side, deepening into welts and gashes. None of those had been there at dinner time. “You went out. You went out and warned him, didn't you?”

Merlin snuffled. “Yes. That I did. I can't be 'aving 'im die. 'E be me father, after all.”

“Merlin, he's a criminal.” Smugglers did more than just swindle the excise. They were dangerous folk. All in all Merlin was lucky he'd run into some and was still alive to tell the tale. “Have you any idea what you've done?”

“Aye.” Merlin's face was sombre, his jaw set. “'If it was yer father, would 'ee have left 'im to swing by the noose?

Arthur's father may have been many things, but an outlaw he hadn't been. Even so, Arthur understood what Merlin meant. “No, of course, not. I couldn't have.”

“Same,” Merlin said, lifting his shoulders. “I 'ad to do somethin'.”

“Merlin, I do sympathise. ” Arthur raked a hand through his hair. “But you must understand you took a big risk.”

“I do.” Merlin “An' I ain't done with that.”

“What do you mean?” Arthur had a terribly bad feeling about this.

“They can't be a-fleeing as they be now, not with their brigantine nohow,” Merlin said. “I mean to 'elp 'em get away.” 

Arthur placed a hand on Merlin's shoulders and let his fingers dig in deep, past the bone and into flesh. “Merlin, that's a jailing offence!”

“I know.” Merlin smiled, his eyes wet. “But I must.”

“Merlin.” Arthur wanted to reason with him, save him at all costs, because nothing bad should ever happen to Merlin. But he knew he would be doing the exact same thing if their roles were reversed. Even so, as a friend, a man who had the numbskull's well-being at heart, he had to try his best to persuade him not to act rashly. “You realise that's aiding and abetting?”

“Yes.” Merlin's face buckled in distress. “Yes, that I do. But I 'ave to. I 'ave to find a boat an' steal it an' make sure he makes for Brittany.”

That wasn't something Merlin could pull off and hope to get away with. If he stole a boat, the theft would be reported. And with the Militia around, they'd soon realise why such craft had been taken. People had hung for poaching or nicking food off market stalls. This was far worse. “No. You can't do it.”

Merlin's brow furrowed. “'Ee 'ave no right to stop me.”

“No, you're right.” Merlin was his own man. And whatever Arthur thought or felt, Merlin was the one ultimately responsible for his own decisions. But that didn't mean he could stop Arthur from helping him. “But I can and will offer the use of my boat, the one I talked to you about earlier today.”

Merlin's mouth slipped slowly open. Once he'd recovered from his double take of surprise, he shook his head and said, “No. It ain't legal. Ee 'ave more to lose than me. 'Ee can't do it.”

“So you're saying that what's good for you is not good for me?” 

“No.” Merlin compressed his lips “I be sayin' 'ee can't do it. 'Ee'd lose Trevena an' the mine an' all 'ee've worked for. 'Tis too dangerous and ee be my friend.” Merlin's face reddened in splotches. “I can't let 'ee.”

“Merlin, I may not be able to stop you from doing something risky, but the same goes for you.”

Merlin's brow puckered as he processed Arthur's words. “But--”

Arthur wondered how Merlin could not see how much they had in common in the circumstances. “You can't keep me from lending a hand any more than I can keep you from rescuing your father.”

The pucker on Merlin's forehead deepened. “But why? I don't get 'ee. He be my father and I owe 'im. But me... I be the one indebted to 'ee. ”

Sadness sloshed into Arthur's chest. “You don't need to understand, Merlin. You just need to accept my offer.”

“I don't feel that I should. It wouldn't be good for 'ee.” Merlin breathed loudly. “It ain't right.”

“That's irrelevant.” Arthur made himself sound harsh. It was the only strategy that would allow him to have his way. Doing so was paramount importance if he was to save Merlin from the noose. “I won't let you act in any other way and you can't afford to say no to me. Not when your father's life hangs in the balance.”

Arthur's tone must have driven the point home, for Merlin's eyes filled with a look of fear. “'Ee can't ask me to choose. I can't choose between 'im and 'ee.”

“He's your father.” Arthur knew what that would mean to Merlin. “You only have one choice to make.”

“An' if I did?”

Arthur felt Merlin was about to give, that he was about to come round and that was Arthur wanted, for he could not bear for Merlin to risk everything and that all alone. “Then we would need a plan.”

“Arthur...” Merlin staggered forwards and, eyes sheened with a well of emotion, put a hand to his face. It was cold but it infused Arthur with warmth all the same. “Please, I want 'ee safe.”

“Merlin,” Arthur said, stepping away from the touch even though it had stamped itself on his flesh. If he wanted to help, he needed to stay firm, not to heed his heart breaking over Merlin's pleading. “I've made my decision. “Now as to that plan.”

Merlin sighed in defeat, then said, “What do you be plottin'?”

Arthur proceeded to explain it.


	19. The Inspection

With the collar of his shirt up against the battering rain, Merlin loped across the courtyard, pushing an ample, battered wheelbarrow forwards. It was piled high with burlap sacks. Some were full, bulging at the bottom, but most were empty, flapping in the wind. 

The barn was large. Poles strapped with large overlapping slabs of birch bark nailed on top formed the roof. Its walls were thick. On the south side they were boarded up with a double layer ment to insulate the place against the cold, though cracks showed here and there in the framework. Its main floor was partitioned into stalls and areas for storage. A pyramid of bales tied into shape with rope and wire band sat near the cow and oxen stalls. Tools dangled from hooks and lined the length of shelves in the workshop area. The animals greeting him with their bellows, Merlin left the wheelbarrow standing against one of the lathering unit tables, lifted the topmost sack lying inside it, slung it over his shoulders and made for the upper floor.

Behind mounds of loose hay the smugglers sat in a circle, facing each other. Aithusa was hugging her knees, Percival sleeping with his head to a bale, and Balinor chewing on the end of a corn husk.

Straw sticking to his soles, Merlin walked over to the their hiding place. “The storm be still a-going,” he said, though he didn't think it would be news for the smugglers. Even inside the barn there was no ignoring the weather. The wind was howling in the woodwork crevices and the rain pounding the roof in a relentless staccato. Leaks had sprung here and there. Pools wet the floorboards, colouring them a darker hue, and soaked the area under the hayloft's hatch. “'Ee can't take to sea yet.”

“We should risk it,” Aithusa said, unlatching her hands from around her knees and sitting up straighter. “The longer we stay cooped up in here, the likelier it is for the Militia to find us.”

“Arthur says no,” Merlin said, kneeling and opening the sack. “'Ee'd get shipwrecked.”

“And who's this Arthur to give us orders?” Aithusa arched an eyebrow. “As far as I can remember no one elected him leader.”

Merlin looked up sharply. “He be 'elping 'ee.” He gestured at their surroundings. “Giving 'ee shelter.”

“I--” Aithusa started.

“We're grateful.” Balinor's intense gaze fixed itself on Merlin. “But you'll allow that the situation is nerve wracking.”

“I 'ave food.” Merlin passed around the bread loaves he'd filched from the kitchens, apples, and large chunks of yellow cheese. “An' I can get 'ee blankets.”

“We thank you, Merlin,” Balinor said, holding his own food aloft in his palms as if it was a holy offering. “And your master.”

Merlin nodded and made a knot of the ends of the sack. 

As the last of the food had circulated, Merlin stood. “I'll be a-goin' then.”

“Wait.” Balinor hadn't broken his bread or touched any of the cheese. His apples sat in a row on the straw beside him. “Wait, I wanted to talk to you.”

Merlin hunkered down. “What did 'ee want to say?”

Balinor picked up on of the apples and brushed it against his jacket but didn't bite. “So this is what you do. You work here.”

When he'd had to convince Balinor's crew to agree to Arthur's plan, Merlin had explained what he did and who Arthur was in relation to him. This new question was in a way more than redundant, but Merlin took it for the opener it was and didn't point that out. He toyed with one of the threads of the sack instead, unspooling it from the mesh of canvas. “Yes, I do. I be a farmhand, though 'ee can call me a jack o' all trades as well.”

“Do you find the job satisfying?” Balinor asked.

“Yes.” There was pride in watching things grow, in working towards making the soil fertile, in seeing crumbling structures shored up and fattening animals who'd been on the scrawny side before. “Plenty of fresh air and I be making a difference, improving the property.”

“And you're doing all this work for, I presume, low wages.”

Merlin's wages weren't much to write home about, that was true, but the whys of it weren't something Balinor could know anything about. “I came to the farm when it were in a right sad state. Arthur didn't 'ave much; the place were a ruin. But now with the mine 'e be doing betterer and he do make good money, so I'll get raises.”

“But does your employer treat you well?” Balinor cocked his head to the side, his jaw out. 

Many employers round the county weren't very kind with their labourers. Farmhands were a means to an end, a caste to be countenanced because of the help they provided, but not one likely to be accepted in the guise of an uqual group. Merlin knew where Balinor was coming from, what class distinctions he was hinting at, yet the implications of his statement made his skin prick and his face smart. “Arthur be a good man, right generous an' noble. 'Ee 'ave no idea 'ow. 'E be the very best.” Merlin's voice hardened. “He ain't using me, if that be what 'ee mean.”

“I just want you to know that you don't need to keep working on a farm at low wages indefinitely,” Balinor said, looking Merlin in the eyes with more intensity than Merlin knew what to do with. “The world is out there waiting for you.”

“I know.” Merlin made knots of the length of thread he had unpicked from the sack. “But I do like it 'ere.”

“I've seen something of the world, Merlin.” Balinor weighed his apple in his palm. “And while it's not always kind--” A grimace twisted his face. “It's also beautiful.”

Merlin had run out of string to do knots with. “Per'aps I'll get to see it one day.” He could imagine that far away world, in broad strokes and brushes, full of colour and sun and motion. “But I signed a contract proper like.” This wasn't strictly true. There was no real paperwork. Merlin had never asked for such -- why would he when he couldn't read it -- and Arthur had never thought to draw up any document whatsoever. His and Arthur's had been a verbal agreement. “I be meant to stay on for a few more seasons. Arthur do have need of me.”

“I'm sure he does,” Balinor said. “But do you have need of him?”

Merlin pushed to his feet and brushed straw and hay off his trousers. “Time I were moving.” He picked up sack that had been emptied of food and balled it in his fists. “I'll be telling 'ee when it be time to go.”

“Merlin.” Balinor's voice broke in the middle of the word.

Merlin turned around. “Arthur do need me inside. I'll be back.”

With the rain still going strong, Merlin dashed across the courtyard and scuttled back into the house. He closed the door behind him and shook the damp off him. He greeted Alice, who was dusting corners with the cloth she usually had tucked in her belt, and slipped into Arthur's study.

Arthur looked up from his paperwork, his mouth a thin line just sagging at the corners. “So, what news?” 

Merlin scratched at his hair. “I got 'em food. They be quiet for now but they do be wantin' to get goin'.”

Arthur exhaled hard. “So they have a hankering for death?”

“I told 'em the weather be too foul,” Merlin said, grimacing at the view from the window. Rain came down in sheets, blurring the lines of the outer buildings and smudging the horizon. “But I ain't sure they believed me.”

“They're most certainly impervious to good advice.”

Merlin dipped his head. “I think it come 'ard for 'em to trust people.”

“They ought to trust you,” Arthur said, arching an eyebrow. “With all that you've done for them, what you've risked, and that when you had little reason to, they owe you.”

“That ain't true.” Merlin had his reasons and they all made sense. As much as some of his wounds still festered inside him, he could ignore them and do the right thing by his father. “You be the one that saved the bunch of 'em.”

Arthur's eyes widened, a distinct flare to them that made them look brighter. “I haven't done anything of the kind. At most I've offered them a questionably safe place of refuge.”

Merlin's lips stretched uncontrollably outwards and he felt like he was pouring all of himself into that smile. It had burst the seams of him and containing it was impossible. “Sometime you do be selling yerself short.”

Arthur huffed, looked away, as if Merlin's words had pricked him, offended him.

Merlin's face crumpled and his heart beat out of tempo with the wrongness of the moment. He didn't know what he'd said wrong. Perhaps there were things that as a common man he couldn't understand, rules of behaviour that he had no knowledge of but that Arthur applied to all his dealings with others. And although he didn't know which, he'd just broken one. “I--” Merlin's shoulders slumped and his face fell. “Nothing.

“You seem worried,” Arthur said after a silence that had stretched too long. “What's wrong, Merlin?”

Merlin couldn't mention his failing to understand as a cause of distress. Arthur wouldn't get why the idea of it made Merlin bleed inside. But there was still plenty that he could talk about and did indeed concern Merlin. He started pacing to and fro, tugging at his hair and going from window to desk. “Balinor be tryin' to get all chummy. know he be.”

“You don't have to, you know.” Arthur followed Merlin around with his gaze. “You don't need to work at a relationship with him if you don't want one.”

Merlin walked and wrung his hands. “Shouldn't I give 'im a chance?”

“Only if you want to, Merlin.”

“I don't know what I want!” Merlin threw his hands up in the air. “I do 'ave so many questions and there be things I've always been wonderin' about.” Like why? Why had his father gone in the first place? Why hadn't he pushed harder, asked around, found out about Merlin? “But I don't know that I can talk about it.”

Arthur pushed off his chair and crossed to Merlin. He placed his hands either side of his arms and said, “You don't have to come to terms with all of that either, not right now.”

Arthur's touch momentarily emptied Merlin's brain of thought. There was something about the solidity of it that was bracing, something about the surprise nature of it that knocked Merlin off his balance. When Merlin got some of his composure back, recovering from the reeling intensity of Arthur, he said, “But time be running out.”

“If he's pressuring you, I'll...” Arthur bit his lip so that whatever he'd meant to say next didn't come out.

“He ain't.” Merlin went over Balinor's words in his mind. “He were just making nice, all father-like, asked me 'ow I liked it 'ere.”

“And what did you say?” 

Merlin could tell Arthur what he'd said to Balinor. But Arthur had reacted so strangely to Merlin's praise, to the vocalisation of his faith in him, that Merlin couldn't make himself sound as defensive of Arthur to his own face as he had to his father. It would be something akin to stripping off his own skin. “That this job were better than some of me old ones.”

“I see.” Arthur stepped back. “And did your father say anything about that?”

“Not much.” Merlin thought he'd spare Arthur Balinor's comments about underpaid labourers. He didn't think that would endear Arthur to his father at all. Somehow he didn't want them to be enemies. “Talked about his travels for a bit. That be all.”

Arthur's eyes became smaller. “I see. And he made no mention of the charms of a smuggling life?”

“'E never be talking about smuggling and the breakin' of the law.”

“I see.”

Merlin was trying to think of something else to say, something that would put them on an even keel again and brush away the awkwardness, when he heard the rhythmic clatter of hooves on gravel. He rushed to the window and saw a bunch of militiamen crowding the muddied yard. Their captain – the same man they he had met on the road from Trebarwith – was dismounting. Merlin whirled round and said, “It be them Red Coats.”

Arthur's face momentarily tensed but then he breathed, his shoulders went down, and his muscles relaxed. “This could be a social call.'

Merlin wasn't so sure. “When there be smugglers around the county?”

Arthur grimaced. “I'll act as though it is. In deference to my standing they won't be able to ignore my cues, not without insulting me.”

Merlin wasn't a gentleman himself and wasn't well versed in the niceties that defined genteel behaviour. He only hoped Arthur knew what he was about. “I'll be getting the door.”

Arthur tipped his head sideways. “Yes, go before Alice or Gaius do.”

Merlin had almost made it out of the study, when Arthur said, “And, Merlin? Watch what you say. ”

Merlin swung the door open before the second knock had finished sounding, and ushered the soldiers in. They were all to a man covered in dust and mud. The dust covered the soldiers' faces and the trimmings of their uniform jackets. The mud lined the soles of their boots and spattered the bottom of their breeches. They left some clumps of it in the doorway.

Merlin acted as though he hadn't noticed any of that and made an effort to sound as proper as he could when he said, “Are 'ee--” He cleared his throat. “Are you here to see the master?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” the Captain said. “Tell him Captain Bevidere of the Royal Cornwall Militia wishes to have a word with him.”

Merlin made a show of knocking on Arthur's door and relaying the message. When he got back to Bedivere he said, “Me master will see 'ee now.”

He escorted them in Arthur's study.

Arthur had fastened his cravat back on and slipped behind his desk. When the Militiamen stomped into his room he didn't rise but spoke words of welcome. Only after Captain Bevidere had stated his business did he rise. He shook the Captain's hand and acknowledged the men with a nod, his head tilted back at a slight angle, his posture ram rod straight and almost military in bearing. He told Merlin, “See to it that my guests have refreshments.”

By the time Merlin had come back with food and hot drinks Captain Bedivere had sunk into one of the armchairs, cocked hat on his knees. He was speaking in conversational tones, his wittering punctuated with a low burring chuckle. “The countryside certainly has its pleasures,” Captain Bevidere said, “fresh air, beautiful vistas, simpler people than you can find in London.” He twisted his mouth. “Less fashionable too.”

“I'm sorry to hear we have so disappointed you in that regard.”

“Oh, not you, Mr Pendragon,” Captain Bedivere said, even as he stopped Merlin from pouring him more tea. “Not you. You're a gentleman plain as day. And the du Lacs are good sorts. New money but I dare say decent people. I was referring to some of the common folks I've lately come into contact with. They're suspicious by nature, stingy with their words and distrusting of authorities. You see, as my calling necessitates, I've been questioning them à propos this smuggler business. They've been as rude and uncooperative as they come.”

“I'm sorry to hear you think our people so unhelpful, Captain,” Arthur told him. “I'll try and have a word with them, persuade them to act differently to you. They'll warm to you in no time, you'll see. That's how we are, out here in the country. It takes us some getting used before we become more friendly to strangers. In the meanwhile I trust these refreshments will do something to change your opinion of our hospitality.”

His tray balanced in his hands, Merlin moved on to the other soldiers. Unlike their captain they whispered their thanks to Merlin.

“I love the countryside.” Captain Bedivere picked up a biscuit, snapped it in two and put a half into his mouth. “I love Cornwall in particular. What I don't appreciate is its remoteness, its wildness. It makes for a great spectacle, true. I'm sure Rosa would have had a field day painting its savage coastline, especially in stormy weather such as this. Alas, it's also what's given rise to banditry. ”

Arthur's face twitched. “ I hope you don't think we're all bandits here.”

The Captain laughed. “I wouldn't go so far as to say that, though there's surely more of a tendency to....” The Captain paused, searching for the right words. “--look the other way, ignore crimes that ought to be reported, generally keep mum about one's neighbour's trespasses in the hopes the neighbours themselves will return the favour. Haven't you found it to be so, too?”

“Can't say that I have,” Arthur said. “I have the greatest respect for Cornish people.”

'I commend you for sticking up for them.” Captain Bedivere took a pull of his tea. “I can't say I've been as positively impressed.”

“Have you encountered any difficulty in your quest to apprehend the smugglers?” Arthur asked. "Other than the Cornish cold shoulder?"

Arthur wasn't drinking, Merlin noticed, or touching any food, and Merlin wanted to tell him to pick up some so it would all look casual, but he couldn't. He had to serve the last remaining soldiers and even if that weren't the case he couldn't exactly draw attention to it himself.

“Many villagers won't talk to the militia,” said the Captain. “They don't care about the power vested in us. They think of the law as of a remote entity that doesn't affect them.”

“That must be making your work hard for you,” Arthur said, rearranging the relative positions of his cup and spoon. "Be challenging."

“We could use a little more collaboration," said Captain Bedivere, putting his cup down by the handle. “About that, have you heard any rumour or noticed anything out of the ordinary? In short can you give us any clue that could help us apprehend the wretches we're on the lookout for?”

“The smugglers?”

“Yes, the smugglers.”

“Merlin,” Arthur said, crooking his finger. “Pass me some of that milk, will you.” As Merlin poured milk into his cooling tea, Arthur added, “I don't think I have.”

“Are you sure, sir?” Captain Bedivere put down the pastry he had picked up, brushed his fingers on a napkin. “I would have thought that being so close to the shoreline you would have heard or seen something.”

Arthur looked to Merlin. It was only a brief glance and soon dropped but it made Merlin go tense about the shoulders. 

“I'm afraid my life is as uneventful as they come.” Arthur quirked his lips in a lopsided smile but there was no lightness in it. “I've been witness to no strange goings on.”

“What about you, boy?” Captain Bevidere asked, signalling Merlin forwards. “You're a servant and likely dally around all day, as most of your class do. Have you seen any trace of the wanted men?”

Arthur jumped into the conversation. “Merlin works from sunrise to sundown and otherwise keeps to the property. There is no way he'd be aware of such comings and goings.”

“Of course not.” Captain Bedivere nodded. “Yet I'd have the boy say it.”

“Never clapped me eyes on no smugglers,” Merlin said, keeping his head down. “Not once.”

“Well, it was but some idle talk we overheard in the tavern on the way here from Truro.”' Captain Bedivere's gazed focused on Merlin. “A couple of drunkards were swearing up and down they saw a file of people steal away from Trevena Beach the other morning at dawn.”

A bead of sweat burned Merlin's upper lip. “I don't know about any drunkards, sir.”

“No, of course not,” Captain Bedivere looked from Arthur to Merlin. “I only thought to ask because that beach is so close to this house.”

“We weren't disturbed by any outlaws.” Arthur sat up straighter and locked his hands together. “If that's what you were asking.”

“I was merely wondering if you'd witnessed any strange disturbance.” Captain Bedivere tossed his hand about in an expansive gesture. “Caught anyone lurking around your premises.”

“No, I haven't.” Arthur pressed his lips together. “Weren't your witnesses drunkards? They may have been...” Arthur affected a smile. “Seeing things.”

“I made allowances for that,” Captain Bedivere said. “Yet they were out on a fishing boat when they saw the figures on the beach. I thought that to be able to pull into the jetty again, they couldn't have been that pickled. At least not to begin with. And if they weren't, then their account might be genuine.”

“Even if it was--” Arthur hooked his eyebrow upwards. “--that wouldn't mean the smugglers would still be in the area.” He ran his fingers round the rim of his cup. “They could have moved elsewhere quite easily. And even if they haven't, you wouldn't be very likely to find them. The county is full of remote hiding places and rabbit holes.”

Captain Bedivere watched Arthur closely. “You would know the county better than I do.”

“I was born here.” Arthur's face stayed expressionless. 

'Now tell me, Mr Pendragon--” Captain Bedivere shifted in his chair and trifled with his hat, “--since you know the area so well, are there many spots along the coast you can launch a boat from?”

“What kind of vessel are we talking about?” Arthur said with a cock of the head. “A sloop, a frigate, a man of war?”

'No, something much smaller, a dingy, pinnace or dory, anything that could piloted by a handful of men.”

Arthur pointed at the map on the wall behind the Captain. “Have you had a look at one of those?”

Captain Bedivere nodded. 

“Then you'll know there are plenty of places that would fit that description.” Arthur gestured at the map. “Hundreds probably.”

“I see.” The Captain tapped his fingers on the brim of the hat in his lap. “And they'd all be good launching spots, even in weather like this?”

“Well.” Arthur made as if to think. “I'm not an expert. I'd say some coves are more sheltered than others and would be a better buffer against a storm. I'd try Bude of Padstow myself, but I'm no mariner. Why do you ask?”

Captain Bedivere laughed. There was a hoarse, strained quality to the sound. “I was just wondering.”

Merlin, for his part, didn't think he was and wished Arthur would change the subject. 

But Arthur didn't. “You think these smugglers of yours are trying to take to sea?”

“That's what I'd do if I were them.” Captain Bedivere lifted his shoulders. “Do you know of any suitable boats they could use to effect their escape?”

“I'm not sure what you mean.”'

“Do you know anyone who owns a boat they may use for their getaway?”

“Most fishermen have one,” Arthur said. “I own such a one myself. Out in the cove.”

When Arthur said that, a nervous tingling expanded along the soles of Merlin's feet. His heart sounded two painful hammering notes in his chest and his nape dampened. God, what if Captain Bedivere had guessed their plan?

Captain Bedivere however didn't seem to dwell on Arthur's words too long. “And have you taken any measures to make sure your boat isn't stolen? Put it in a locked shed or removed the oars perhaps?”

Arthur nudged his shoulders into a shrug. “No. But then again the boat has little value.”

“If I were you,” the Captain said, “I'd look after my property a little better.”

“I'll consider myself warned.” Arthur got up. “But enough talk of smugglers. Can I invite you to dinner, gentlemen?”

Captain Bevidere rose in Arthur's wake. “I'm afraid I will have to decline.” His body went tenser, his spine straightened and his chest stuck out as if he was on parade. “But I would appreciate it if you let me search the house and grounds. It's nothing but a routine check, but I've been tasked with apprehending these criminals and I'd be remiss if I didn't inspect every house and farmstead in the area they were last sighted. I'm sure you'll understand my position.” 

'I'll take you round the house myself,” Arthur said, inclining his head at Merlin for him to open the door. “I'd feel like a rude host if I didn't.”

Merlin's hands trembled as they wrapped around the door handle, but he managed to turn it in the end.

The Captain picked up his hat and clanked out of the room, his soldiers following.

Merlin and Arthur fell behind them and exchanged a look. Tension had clawed lines on Arthur's forehead. Merlin was sure he didn't look any more relaxed.

“Let me show you the house, gentlemen,” Arthur said, wiping his face of expression.

With Arthur in the lead and Merlin bringing up the rear, they led the soldiers on a tour of the house. The soldiers' boots tramped up and down the stairs, their bodies crowded empty rooms and blocked the entryways of different chambers. They peeked inside first, then checked corners and opened wardrobes and chests. Merlin wondered whether they really thought they would find anyone in there or if they were just putting up a show of efficiency. When they were done with the unlikely hiding places, they searched the rest of the house. They touched upon the solar, the bedrooms, the kitchens and even the pantry. A spotty faced militiamen broke a jar, the fragments of which Alice ended up picking up. He apologised again and again but Alice didn't seem any more inclined to forgive him than she would a highwayman.

“Are you satisfied there are no criminals hiding on my property?” Arthur asked when they were done with their inspection of Trevena.

“Oh, yes.” The Captain smiled. His teeth were small but white and even. “I do understand, however, that there are some outer buildings attached to the property.”

Arthur brow pinched. “A barn, a stable and a small over-packed shed.”

“Well,” Captain Bedivere said, “if you could please show us?”

They filed out of the house by twos and crossed the courtyard at a trot. Rain pelted the farm in violent gusts that whipped at the skin and sent doors and shutters flying. Pools of mud drowned the gravel, shining with a beading of water drops. Small rivulets bisected the area facing the stables, popping bubbles forming on their churning surface. The soldiers footprints showed on the softer patches of soils, larger and smaller ones, with ridges either side of the shape of the heel.

Arthur said, “Merlin, show the soldiers the stables first.”

Because of the charge of rain and thunder in the air, the horses were nervous. Hengroen neighed and sniffed. The nag pawed the ground in a great clatter, its ears forward. 

Upon sight of the soldiers the animals pranced and hit at the the stall partitions with their hooves. The sound was low and repetitive. The wood moaned and gave signs of yielding. The soldiers backed off. “Stable is empty, sir,” said the soldier who'd dared get past the horses.

“Good.” Captain Bedivere retreated to the doorway. “Now for the barn and we'll be calling it a day here.”

Pressure tightened Merlin's temples and made his heart skip a beat. He wanted to shout and make a ruckus, chase the Militiamen away, out of Trevena and the whole of Cornwall. He wanted for this all to stop and be a bad dream. He wanted to rush around the back and warn the smugglers. But he couldn't take off without being noticed. Couldn't give a signal without drawing all attention to himself. So as to make no noise, he bit his tongue and balled his fists. If he gave himself free rein, he knew he'd do something stupid. 

Only a little distance separated the stables from the barn. A narrow path ran between the buildings, with rusty pipes cordoning it from top to bottom, jutting eaves darkening it and making it drier than the flooded courtyard, a growth of moss lining the interstices between wall and lead tubes.

The soldiers dashed from the door of the one to the door of the other. Captain Bedivere nodded at the youngest of the soldiers and the man sprang forward. 

Arthur and Merlin stood back and looked at each other. Their knuckles brushed. Merlin closed his eyes, felt his heartbeat flicker in his eyelids. Colour didn't fade; on the contrary sparks glimmered bold and bright on their canvas. He saw the gibbet. He saw the noose, a thick rope of twisted hemp, blackened at the top, straining taut from the wooden frame. Feet swinging in the wind, from side to side, while the wood squeaked and scraped in a rhythm. As the legs drew an arc in the air, the shoes changed. They went from sturdy brown boots fraying at the top and barely held together by lace and twine to shined boots of supple leather.

Merlin snapped his eyes open. 

The soldier lifted the bolt securing the barn shut. With both hands on its surface, he pushed the door open. It creaked and groaned, its shadow projected towards the outside.

Unable to stand there and do nothing, Merlin stepped forwards and said, “Stay away from the cow. She be sick.”

The young soldier turned around, face greying at the edges. “What with?”

“The cow pox.” On Simmons farm one of the cows had come down with it. Within one week it was covered in scabs and sores, red and crusty spots that looked as unsightly as anything Merlin had ever seen. “The girl that do come round every other day to milk the poor beast caught the sickness too. She woke up wi' nasty welts all o'er 'er 'ands.”

The young soldier cleared his throat. “Is that bad? I mean is she going to--”

The captain said, “Just have a quick look in and steer away from the animals.”

The young soldier's throat worked; he shifted his weight, dithered some more, and eventually got in.

Merlin didn't move, couldn't move, didn't think he would be able to. His feet were like lead, heavy and burdensome, stuck to the clammy soil. His muscles had locked and started to hurt from neck to back, rising in taut cords that pulled like heaving ropes. He couldn't close his eyes either. He was sure that if he did the same images as before – of death, of loss – would flood back into his consciousness. He didn't want to have to deal with what he'd seen ever again. He breathed, dried his sweaty hands on his palms, tried to get his breathing pattern under control, feeling his lungs expand at the base till he was nearly drunk with it. In the meanwhile he tried to prick his ears and make out what was going on inside the barn. The cow lowed; the ox bellowed. Rust hinges moaned. From this mesh of sounds, Merlin could make out no human noise. He tried to unravel the strands of the animals' lowing but couldn't. It was just so much bleating. He had angled his head so as to better make out what was going on inside, but again nothing. He was straining his hardest, jaw locked, eyes pushed in a squint, head cocked, when the soldier trotted out. “There's nothing inside,” he said. “Just hay, straw, the – er – the animals.”

Captain Bedivere turned to Arthur. “Well, that's our job done then.” He moved across the yard and shook Arthur's hand. “Thank you for your cooperation and apologies for the disturbance.”

Once the soldiers had galloped away, Merlin said, “I don't even know 'ow we got out o' this one, but I be that happy we did.”

“You probably scared that poor soldier so much he didn't check the hayloft.” Arthur cracked a smile at him and it was so dazzling Merlin forgot his fears. “Really, Merlin, how did you come up with that cow pox idea of yours?”

Merlin tapped a finger against his temple. “Remembered something that 'appened on old Simmons' farm.”

Arthur clapped his hands either side of Merlin's shoulders. “That's great, Merlin, brilliant.” The touch lingered, became weightier, more charged. Arthur stepped back. “Excellent bluff.”

“So we be out of trouble now?” Merlin said.

Arthur's face darkened. “No, I don't think so.” He sucked in a breath. “Captain Bedivere may be a callous stuck-up coxcomb, but he's not an idiot.”

“So we be in danger.” Merlin's shoulders drooped.

“Yes, Merlin, yes.” Arthur looked into the distance the Red Coats had disappeared into. “We still are.”


	20. Elena

Hats, ribbons and pieces of trim sat on one end of counter together with a fat velvet cushion pinned full of shiny needles. On the other end of it rolls of fabric lay. Some samples were died in eye-catching colours and some plain, the patterns simple. Silk shone in shimmering swatches while cotton and muslin rippled around reels of cardboard. A collection of buttons of different shapes and sizes filled a bowl that rested at the edge of the worktop. Behind the counter hung shelves that ran from one side of the shop to the other. On them goffers perched next to busts wearing wide bonnets and fanciful bergere hats. 

Gwen tried a flowery cap on. It had a cluster of paper marigolds on its front, pinned by a string of white lace and a few tacks. She looked at herself in the mirror and from different angles. “What do you think, Sefa? If I took the flowers out perhaps?”

“It looks very pretty, ma'am,” Sefa said. “With or without the flowers.”

“Are you sure?” Gwen thought the flowers were quite in-your-face. “I love the shape of it and the fit, but I'm not certain the trims are right.”

The milliner said, “We can sew something else on in place of those flowers.”

“What do you think, Sefa?” Gwen asked. “Shall I take Mrs Nowell up on her offer?”

Sefa looked from the milliner to Gwen and hummed. “It's alright either way, ma'am.”

Gwen took off the hat and stared at it. She was considering the options, when the door flew open in a screeching of bells. 

Miss Elena doubled over, her hat flopping forward on her forehead, before its laces gave and it fell off her head. “Goodness gracious.” She panted. “Thank the Lord I found you.”

“Miss Elena,” Gwen said, putting the hat down and going over to her, “are you feeling well?

Her hand on her heaving bosom, Miss Elena straightened, then wagged her head up and down. “I'm fine. I'm fine. But I really need to talk to you -- urgently.”

Gwen's mouth tipped sideways. “I'm all ears.”

“No.” Miss Elena wrapped both her hands around Gwen's. “I can't talk about it in here.” She made huge eyes at the milliner. “It's secret and very important.” She started tugging Gwen towards the door. “Can we, please, talk about it outside?”

Seeing as Miss Elena's eyes had grown outsize and her tugs had become jerky and impatient, Gwen didn't see how she could refuse. “Sefa, could you wait here a moment?”

As the door shut to behind them the bell jangled and the glass rattled. The street was busy. Ladies promenaded themselves in the new day's sun. They were dressed in their best morning gowns, trimmed with shiny buttons and silk ribbons, veiled with lace and small fichus that covered part of their cleavage. Their bonnets bobbed down the street like buoys on waves. Parasols weaved over their heads, throwing multicoloured shade on their pale bodies. Gentlemen pushed forward with their silver-tipped canes, their hats pulled low over their brows. Shoeshines plied their trade in corners and in doorways, their benches arrayed with polish amassed in low round tin boxes. Farmers pushed their carts while coachmen driving spanking carriages exhorted them on. The place was anything but private but if Miss Elena preferred it to the inside of the milliner's, Gwen would indulge her.

“Has something happened?” Gwen asked. “Are you having trouble at home?”

“I really love my sister, I swear I do.” Miss Elena worried her lower lip plumper. “But this time she's really gone and done it.”

“Done what?” Gwen didn't think that anything Miss Corney had done could amount to much. She could be pushy with her sister and a little flirtatious with the gentlemen but otherwise Gwen had never heard a bad word about her. “You will have to tell me what you're talking about, dear, or I won't be able to help you.”

“Right, right.” Elena breathed in and out. “My father was pretty horrible to Viv the other day. He said it wasn't right that she was twenty-two and still unmarried.”

“I see.” Though Gwen's father had died before she was of a marriageable age, Elyan had never tried to force Gwen into marriage. As she listened to Elena, Gwen couldn't help but feel a warmth bloom in her heart for her brother. She couldn't see, however, why Elena was talking to her about her sister's predicament. Was she hoping Gwen would put a stop to it? “I'm afraid I have no power to help. I scarcely know your father and--”

“No, no.” Elena waved her hands about. “That's not what I wanted to talk to you about. That's the reason why!”

Gwen sighed. “Miss Elena I'm failing to grasp what were you trying to tell me.”

“We made a call on Mr Pendragon,” Elena said, talking very fast as if that would allow her to cut down on the time wasted on explanations. “Father chaperoned us.”

Gwen wondered whether Elena wanted her to put a good word in with Arthur on behalf of her sister. She and Arthur had a history, after all, and they'd been trying to keep their friendship going. Perhaps Elena thought Gwen likely to get Arthur to accept Vivian's advances. It was a strange supposition, predicated on assumptions Gwen didn't think were appropriate, and yet she could see why it had been formulated. Gwen coughed into her fist. “And was it a –“ Gwen discarded several word options. “--a pleasant visit?”

“No, it was miserable,” Elena said. “My father kept talking about the upcoming shooting season and Mr Pendragon was so distracted he scarcely said a word at all.”

Gwen would be distracted too if somebody went on and on about the pleasure of killing grouse, but she didn't say that. “I'm sorry you found little enjoyment in the call.”

“But that's the point!” Elena gave her a pleading look. “Vivian got so cross that everything seemed like a provocation to her. Particularly Merlin.”

“Merlin?” Though Vivian wasn't one for supporting making friends with farmers, Gwen couldn't see why she would go out of her way to ostracise Arthur's farmhand. “Why?”

“She said he was fishing for Mr Pendragon's attention.” Elena puffed her cheeks. “In fairness Mr Pendragon seemed to be very interested in his comings and goings.”

Gwen had noticed that too. But she wouldn't go as far as to say that Merlin went out of his way to solicit Arthur's interest. Arthur seemed to give it of his own volition. “And she took it to heart?”

“Infinitely.” Elena gave a little sigh. “So after we said goodbye, she refused to get into the carriage and took to watching Merlin closely. I swear he did nothing more that push this old wheelbarrow around but Vivian convinced herself he was doing something fishy. And...” Elena shook her head. “She got it into her head he's got something to do with the smugglers.”

“Merlin?” Gwen laughed. The boy seemed very unlikely to be involved in illegal activities. Arthur may have found him in unusual circumstances but Gwen hardly thought that that made him an outlaw. “I have a hard time believing that.”

“Me too to be quite honest,” Elena said, “but Vivian was adamant and earlier today she went to town to talk to Captain Bevidere. He's a friend of my father's and Vivian said he'd listen to her. I really hope he won't because...” Elena sucked in a big breath. “--Vivian has reported Merlin for conniving with the smugglers. I can't imagine what proof she may have – I think none – but that can't be good for either Merlin or Mr Pendragon. You must warn him, Mrs du Lac. You must warn them both.”

An exhale pushed its way out of Gwen's lips. “She can't have.”

“Oh but she has.” Elena squeezed Gwen's hands so Gwen could feel all the bones in Elena's fingers. “And you must put a stop to it.”

“I will try my best,” Gwen said, without knowing what that would be. “That I promise you.”

Gwen settled her account with the milliner, let Sefa take the packages, and hurried towards the carriage. Her voice was brusque when she gave the coachman his orders and her hands kept sweating as she gripped the inside door handle. She watched the town dwindle behind her, its confines rounding up to observable proportions, a shape she could make out, steeples becoming smaller and smaller, buildings fading in a mass of stone and lime wash.

When she got home, she rushed into the study, sat at her desk and rummaged into the drawer for fresh writing paper. The nib was running with too much ink when she put it to paper.

_Dear Arthur,_

_I just received news of a worrisome nature. Your name has come to the attention of the militia in connection to their smuggler investigation. I have this on very good authority and from a person who is not to be doubted. I would wish you to take precautions in case..._

Gwen let the pen fall from her hand and went over what she'd written. She flattened her hands on the paper, breathed in and out, re-read the lines and said, “This is too compromising.”

She balled the sheet in her hands, rested back in her chair, then, hands prikcling with unease, she picked up the wadded paper, and fed it to the flames in the fireplace. The paper burned in the middle first and then it got stiff, cracked and turned to black dusty ashes.


	21. Midnight Foray

Night fell. Clouds lumbered over the horizon in heavy, dark folds that closed off the sight-line. Blue black smears painted them at the centre and edges, darkening the faded span of blue ether that showed in between. Their flat bottoms were dirty cotton grey, with patches of white interspersed in among them. The sky flickered with moonlight every now and then, beams stealing through gaps and meshing with the questing lights from the lighthouse. 

After dinner Arthur clambered down to the beach. The tide was almost full. Water lapped the shoreline in places that had been dry but a few hours before. A front wind whipped the black water into waves churning with foam. The swell, however, had lessened considerably compared to the previous days. 

Arthur went back to Trevena. He found Merlin in the front parlour. He sat on his haunches before the fireplace, his hands out to the leaping flames. 

“The storm has quietened and it's calmer than it was yesterday but it's still risky,” Arthur said.

Merlin turned his head around, his sharp profile cast in the warm glow of the fire. “But Mr du Lac said--”

“I know what he said.” Arthur hissed his breath out between his teeth and put his hands on his hips. “But there's no other option.”

“I do know.” Merlin nodded his head. “I just wish it wasn't like this.”

“I wager Balinor would rather take his chance with the swell than hang.” What Arthur didn't say was that he hoped Balinor would sooner try his luck than risk Merlin swinging from the noose. He had to believe the man had enough fatherly instincts to put Merlin first. If not, Arthur would. “It must be attempted tonight.”

At midnight they all convened in a cave that had a view of the beach and part of the bay. The smugglers had stolen in one by one and in twos, at regular and irregular intervals. Arthur and Merlin had joined them separately, taking different routes. Merlin had opted for the short path that cut down towards the shore. Arthur had watched him vanish into a wall of wild bracken and thistledown, his body twisting this way and that to fit into the overgrown tangle. Arthur had picked the long winding path that cut around the cliff. The track had disappeared into a lagoon of mud and loose terrain from the rains that had hit the area in the preceding days. Arthur had had to go slow so as not slip and fall, groping for purchase every step of the way. When he had made it to the base, his shoes were caked with sludge and his trousers lined with mire. The cave opened dank and musty onto the beach.

The last to trickle in was Balinor himself. He loped towards the mouth of the cave like a beast of prey, his body sheathed in a long black oilskin cloak that flapped in the wind like the wings of a crow. 

When he got in, Arthur said, “We'll wait for the tide and then put the boat out.”

Balinor nodded sternly, then turned to Merlin. “So this is it, boy.”

“Aye, 'tis be it,” Merlin said, his head tipped low, his mouth barely moving with the words.

“If luck is with us, we'll be in Brittany by the day after tomorrow,” Balinor said, burying his hands in the folds of his cloak. “Once we're there, well' try to get back on our feet.”

“I 'ope 'ee get good winds.” Merlin spoke into the breeze that blew into the mouth of the cave. “And that 'ee be fine.” 

“We know how to look after ourselves.” There was a strange fragile quality to Balinor's voice that Arthur hadn't heard before. “We don't always make mistakes as big as the ones that have plagued this run. Actually, we're very prudent and set in our ways. Our life is never this adventurous and there are rewards to it. And though you may not believe it, there's some honour to it.” 

“I never said 'ee 'ad none.” Merlin wrapped his arms around himself. 

“No, you didn't.” Balinor acknowledged that with a nod. His throat worked and his hand glanced down Merlin's arm. “But you didn't need to. I can tell.”

“I be not doing the judging of 'ee,” Merlin said. 

“But you rightly think I failed you as a father.” Balinor stood taller. “I get that.”

“'Ee can't see fer lookin', can 'ee.” Merlin bristled; his eyes contracted.

“Probably not.” Balinor gave a knead to Merlin's shoulder, dropped his hand. “But I want to make up for that.”

Merlin exhaled hard, his hand scraping up the back of his head to tangle in his hair. “Are 'ee going to say ye're coming back?”

Balinor's ribcage expanded with his next breath. “No.” He shook his head, his jaw thrust out at a sharp angle. “I'm going to ask you to come with us.”

When he next spoke, Merlin's voice came out raspy. “What?” 

“Come with us to Brittany,” Balinor said, hope flooding his tones. “We can start new there. You can have a place in the gang, see the world, carve out a future for yourself.”

Merlin's head snapped up but he gave no answer. 

Arthur's breath caught. A cold blade sliced through his marrow. He would never speak out, the words would stick in his chest and stay buried in skin and bone, but he hoped Merlin would stay. Trevena wouldn't be the same without him. It wouldn't be quite itself.

“There were a time I wanted nought but that.” Merlin searched the ground with his eyes. “I didn't want to be a come-by-chance ch'il. But I reckon I do be fine with that now.” Merlin paused, moistened his lips, looked up so he was meeting Balinor's gaze. “My place be 'ere. I belong 'ere and I don't want to go.”

Arthur's chest lightened. He brimmed with warmth, with a lightness, that set his insides right.

Balinor huffed a croak. “I think I deserve that.” He smiled but there was something in his eyes and voice that spoke of sadness, a well of it that deepened his expression to near blackness. “But I want you to know that I'll always think of you, for you are my son.”

Merlin made a small sound deep in his chest, something between a hiss and a sob. He stepped forwards, danced back on his heels, then advanced again, touching his hand to Balinor's shoulder. “Thank 'ee.”

“This isn't over,” Balinor said. “I'll check on you one day, when all of this has died down.”

Merlin sniffed, gave Balinor a pat on his back and stepped away from his father, working his shoulders up and out. “It be time, I reckon. Waiting longer be dangering you pointless.”

Arthur moved past Merlin and Balinor to check on the beach. Darkness lay heavy over it but Arthur could make out the mass of the cliffs looming behind and the paleness of the sand against the black canvas of the rock wall. The sea lapped at the shore, grumbled, and gurgled in a push and pull of breakers on shingle. When the moon came out, Arthur saw the surf hem the waves, spotted the gold in the grains of sand, and the grey whisperings of the grass that grew at the base of the cliff path. When he clocked a moving shadow, he dove back into the cave, and drew Merlin and Balinor level with him. 

“What is that?” Balinor looked to Arthur for clues. 

Arthur squinted into the darkness. He had keen eyes, had been a soldier on duty on night watches before, and was fairly well used to scanning the night for danger. “I'm sure I saw a man.”

“A man?” Balinor's breath rattled out of him.

“Red Coat, I'd say,” Arthur said. “I saw the glint of his sabre.” 

Merlin's face collapsed. “What, no. It be dark as a shaft; 'ee can't be right.”

They all squatted behind the interior façade of the cave. “I'm afraid I am, Merlin, and when there's one Red Coat...”

“There are plenty others,” Aithusa, who'd just moved forward to observe the goings on, said.

Though he wasn't sure the others could pick out his gesture in the dark, Arthur nodded.

“So what do we do?” Merlin said, eyes so preternaturally wide with fear they shone.

“I'd better go deal with them,”' said Balinor. “Once I have, I'll whistle to signal the coast is clear.”

Arthur pulled him back by his oilskin. “Not so fast. If there's a whole column out there, you'll be dead in seconds and no good to your crew.”

“So what do 'ee suggest?” Merlin peeked out then ducked back in and down.

“We can get them,” said Aithusa. “They're not so many we can't take them on.” 

Arthur knew that there was little choice. If they did nothing and went back to Trevena, they might be spared tonight. Yet the house might be searched again and their safety would be short lived. They had to face the soldiers on shore, deal with them in a way that would allow the smugglers to run for their freedom. Still, Aithusa's words sat wrong with him. “No killing.” He wouldn't let them harm the Militia. They were only soldiers doing their duty after all. “I'll be helping you take the guards out.”

“An' me,” Merlin said with the breathlessness of a spur of the moment decision.

Arthur knew that Merlin would help his father and that nothing would get him to back down. Merlin would face the risks head on as he had the day Arthur head met him at Camelford fair. He's stood up against four urchins then, fists up and a defiant grin on his face. With his father's life in the balance, Merlin was sure to do the same today. That didn't mean Arthur wouldn't help him overcome all the obstacles that came his way. "And Merlin."

In preparation for their foray, Merlin pulled his neckerchief over his face. Earlier today he'd lent Arthur another such one. It had once been red but was now faded to a mellow russet that was paler at the centre than at the edges. This Arthur pulled up to cover his face. It smelled like Merlin, with the tang and sun scent of his skin. It had an imprint of lavender and heather and all the smells of Merlin and the fields he spent his days in. The smell of Trevena. With the kerchief in place over his mouth and nose, Arthur pulled up the collar of his coat and lowered the brim of his hat.

The smugglers didn't bother with such precautions.

With the ceaseless drum of the wind battering their bodies, they advanced at a crouch. Though he was gearing up for action, Arthur spared a glance for Merlin. He had to check that he was fine, that he wasn't acting rashly so as to protect Balinor. He looked wrapped in the moment, focused, and not at all like he was been swept on by emotion. The tendons in his neck stood out and his eyes shone in the dark. They took their surrounding in, gauging them for risk, their intent firm. He looked the picture of conscious determination. 

Arthur felt a prickled of unease travel up his spine and put a tingle to his limbs. They had to do this. They must succeed. For Merlin.

Now that they were further out onto the beach, Arthur could see a second and third man. They were facing the surf and looking out towards the promontory. There were a few hundred paces between the first soldier and the second and Arthur suspected there were more Militiamen hanging around beyond the outer limits of Arthur's field of vision. If he was Captain Bedivere, he'd have spaced his men out along the whole coastline so as to better guard the entirety of the beach. Arthur had no reason to suspect Captain Bedivere was any less prudent than Arthur.

Likely figuring as much out, Balinor muttered a curse. 

The smugglers crept forward at a slow pace, their knees bent and their backs low. Aithusa and Bawdin slid the boat across the sand, the oars in, the mast down, lying flat on the sole of the craft. The others, who were free of such burden, filed forwards towards the shoreline, Balinor coming first, Percival with a knife in his mouth following close, then Arthur and Merlin, with the others spaced out behind them.

“Who goes there?” a shout echoed along the beach.

At a sign from Balinor they rushed for the shoreline. A shot rang in the air and dully hit sand. It sprayed outwards in a little fountain of debris.

“Forward, Forward,” said Balinor, milling both arms up in the air. “We must put the boat to sea.” 

Boots clapped on rock and warning shouts echoed along the stretch of beach.

“I found the smugglers!”' someone shouted, the voice green with the tones of youth. “By the cave!”

As Aithusa and Bawdin dragged the boat along the sand dunes, the smugglers made a dash for the sea. The boat stuck. Bawdin cursed and kicked at her gunwale. Merlin rushed in to help, lifting the vessel by the bow side. When the vessel came unstuck, they trudged along, kicking up sand, till they were halfway over across the beach. Merlin stumbled into a shiny black rock and fell into the sand. Arthur rushed in to help, but Merlin got his feet under him before Arthur could do much, and grabbed his end of the boat again. At his nod Aithusa and Bawdin picked the craft up stern-side. 

Aithusa told Merlin, “You know, you're not that bad at midnight forays for a country boy. I'd have liked you on our crew after all.” 

Merlin's eyes flared and his lips settled into a smile. “I be taking that as praise.” 

“Not if you dawdle longer,” Aithusa said. “We must put this babe to sea.”

“Right,” Merlin said, renegotiating the weight distribution of the boat. He faced forwards with his arms stretched behind him and said, “I be good to go.”

Together they ran for the shallows.

Arthur followed and only stopped in his dash when water lapped at his soles. “Get into the boat!” Arthur shouted at the smugglers. 

Percival and Balinor put the first of the row-locks in place and slipped an oar in. Percival tossed Balinor the second one, but Balinor lost it in the surf. Balinor cursed, went on all fours and searched for the object. 

“Move, move, move,” Arthur yelled, panic turning his blood cold. “Into the boat.”

“I can't find it,” Balinor barked as he dragged the shallows for the row-lock. He was hunkering, hands out, shoulders working as he sifted the seabed. “I can't--” His movements got quicker, became snaps of the arms and back. “Here. Here, I've got it.”

As Balinor and Percival fixed the last row-lock in place and put up the mast, the members of their crew jumped into the boat. When the row caught in its lock, Percival too leaped on board. Balinor turned around and waded back towards Merlin. Wind buffeting his hair into his face, he stood there, feet planted wide, his back to the churning sea, moon-light cross-hatched across his face. “You can change your mind.” His shoulders went back. “It's not too late.”

“I ain't coming,” Merlin said, though he did so with a smile. It traced small lines around his eyes. I-- be glad that I met 'ee.” He pressed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, rubbed them dry, then pushed Balinor forwards. “But 'ee must go now. They be coming.”

Balinor withstood Merlin's shoves, barely staggering backwards. “I should stay. I should stand by my son's side.”

Merlin muscled Balinor backwards, water sloshing around as he moved. “No, 'ee shouldn't. 'Ee'd swing and I don't be wanting that. Please.” Even as he kept pummelling Balinor into backing towards the boat, Merlin rattled out big breaths that became more and more something like sobs. “Please.”

At the sound Balinor grabbed Merlin's fist, gave it a squeeze, nodded and jumped on the boat. He didn't take his eyes off Merlin for the longest time, not when Percival started rowing, and not when the boat jostled free. Eventually he turned round, but the motion was slow, tired, with a slope to the shoulders that looked like defeat. The oars striking the water together, the dory pushed off the shore. The boat leapt forward, floating off, fending the crest of the waves, and leaving the shallows behind. 

“Yes.” Merlin balled his fists. “Yes.” 

A breaker broke over the dory's prow in a high spray of foam that smacked its sides. The boat rocked, her timbers groaning loudly into the night, and leapt on the crest of another incoming wave. It lifted the hull onto its apex and then swung it onto the next trough. The craft got tossed from black comber to black comber; it tilted from one side to the other. Water sluiced off her sides and dripped from the oars in rivers. Foam flew up to the mast and the wind filled the sails, making them balloon to stretching point. The dory nearly capsized, but in a splash of froth righted itself.

“They've made it.” Spray in his face, Merlin pumped a fist in the air, his eyes watery with relief. “They've made it!

“Get the outlaws!' a soldier shouted, breaking the spell of Merlin's momentary joy. “They're fleeing. Stop them!” 

The Red Coats raced towards them. One went on his knees, aimed his musket and pulled the trigger. Arthur saw the spark as the weapon fired, like a rose blooming in the night. It resounded like a clap of thunder. Arthur scrabbled at Merlin, got a handful of shoulder, and propelled him forwards. “We've got to run!”

They both tore off at speed, kicking up water until they hit dry sand. Arthur could feel the bullets rush towards him, whistle around his ears, fly to the left and right of him. They tore up the sand about their feet, drilled it with holes, their dull thud echoing hollowly. Instinctively, Arthur dropped to a crouch, but that slowed him down too much. With the Red Coats coming at them, that was too senseless a tactic to adopt. He began swerving instead, veering like a mad hare, wind and spray flying in his face, the old pain in his hip flaring to a throb. 

Like Arthur, Merlin sheered off left, then right, changing course every few seconds. There was power in his body, in the way his legs and arms pistoned, in the fashion his shoulders worked and his back muscles flexed. A life time as a street urchin had taught him speed – and cunning. When the barrage of shots veered too close to hitting home, he flattened himself on the expanse of sand. Relentless, he picked himself up again, zigzagged forwards, and rabbited towards the rock cliff.

Wisps of grey smoke rose from the muskets and made for the sky. The air smelt like gunpowder. The smell climbed up Arthur's nostrils and wrapped itself around his brain. Together with the pain in his body, it plunged him back into Courthouse, into the frenzy that was that day, the field of that battle. The fenced wood, with its green fronds shining in the sun, lines of six pound cannon positioned one against the other, their metal bodies reflecting the morning lustre. The air had been sooty with the residue of explosives, the uniforms stained with mud, one of a sticky kind that seemed to adhere to both cloth and flesh, the medals pinned to the chests of the officers dulled by dirt. The bayonets had glinted like new suns.

Someone caught Arthur by his cloak and a rifle detonated in his ear. The whistle pierced Arthur's eardrums and turned him round. He punched out. The soldier dropped his rifle and parried with his arm. Dancing back, Arthur disengaged. He jabbed at the Red Coat to probe his reach. The Red Coat threw a straight punch and segued into another one with the same hand. Hip twinging with a bright pain that flamed under his skin, Arthur ducked, felt the air move right above his head. He straightened and feigned a back-fist. The soldier gasped and doubled over. Arthur hit him in the small of his back back and the man went sprawling face first in the sand. 

When Arthur looked up, he saw Merlin. He stood at the base of the cliff just under a vault of rough stone. The cliff path opened a hundred yards to his left. While he himself couldn't yet make for the cover it provided, Arthur signalled Merlin to move. Only an idiot with no sense of preservation whatsoever would linger on a beech riddled with Red Coats out for their skin. But Merlin stood still, waited for Arthur to catch up, his body rooted to the spot with the defiance of feet planted wide apart and shoulders pulled back all the way. 

Merlin, the numbskull, should really learn the wisdom of knowing when to bolt, when to think of himself first. Not that Arthur thought Merlin would, but if it wasn't too late, Arthur would drill a new sense of caution into him. The mere thought that something could happen to Merlin because of Arthur had done nothing to teach him prudence curdled his insides and hollowed out his heart. It wasn't just the burden of responsibility; it was like tasting the bitter, dank taste of a nightmare. Disguising his voice, the treble of fear in it, Arthur shouted, “Run.” For God's sake, Merlin had to. His heroics were so misplaced. In spite of the burn in his hip, Arthur would make it and even if he didn't that didn't mean Merlin had to sacrifice himself for him. “Go on. Don't wait for me. Run!”

Merlin shook his head and waved him over.

Only once Arthur started at a jog, did Merlin turn too. He went for the cliff path at a clip, but a soldier came at him from the wings. 

Arthur's lungs stiffened hard at the sight. He couldn't get there in time. Sand dunes stretched in the semi-darkness for hundreds of yards in front of him.

Merlin tore forwards but the Red Coat caught him by the jacket. Merlin whirled round on his feet and shoved the Red Coat back. The Red Coat, however, lunged forward, bayonet first. Merlin jumped sideways, grabbed the musket by the stock and wrenched it out of the soldier's hands. He paused for a moment, one that made Arthur's breath catch in his throat with the bitterness of bile, and then lobbed the musket away. 

The soldier wasn't rebuffed. He threw a stab at Merlin's chin, but Merlin jerked out of the way, deflecting his adversary's fist to one side. The soldier kicked and put space between them. Having carved himself some room for manoeuvring, he darted a cross punch that glanced off Merlin's jaw. In return Merlin dealt him a blow across the ribs. The Red Coat stumbled, groaned, and his punch went wide. Merlin blocked it by striking the Red Coat's bicep with his elbow. With his other other arm he hit him beneath the sternum, and then in the face with a left hook which tagged the Red Coat on the side of the jaw. The soldier grunted, shook his head and then flopped sideways on the strand. 

Free of pursuers, Merlin smiled at Arthur, span round and began to climb among the bracken that bloomed along that side of the combe.

With the shards picked out from his heart thanks to the outcome, Arthur sprinted after Merlin. They could split up once they'd gained the summit and do their best to evade pursuit. Once they were deep into moor, where gorse and grass grew grew so tall and ripe as to provide the perfect hiding place, they would be safe. The Militia could look all night for them there and never find them. 

Arthur hearted himself with the thought and sped up. He'd nearly got to the spot where sand gave way to shingle, when a bullet hissed somewhere past his head.

Merlin went down in a heap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't see fer looking: looking too hard.  
> come-by-chance ch'il illegitimate child


	22. Fight and Flight

Pain flared bright in Merlin's shoulder. It clawed at his joint and deeper into the bone. It ran up and down his arm and made his heart kick wildly. It burned him. It knit his brow and clenched his jaw and took his breath. He opened his mouth to suck in air but only ate sand. It sat coarse on his tongue and grazed his throat raw. He coughed it out, moaned, wriggled, tried to get his elbows under him, but a deep pang shot thorough his shoulder. Darkness swamped his mind and he went back under. He was was floating in a seabed of black, dazzled by pinpricks of light that stabbed at his pupils, when pressure bore on his back.

“Merlin, Merlin!” It was Arthur's voice, straining high though there was a rough undertone to it. “Come on, Merlin. You can't play dead. It doesn't suit you. Come on!”

Merlin squinted through his eyelashes. 

Arthur jostled him, making flames shoot up his shoulder. “You numbskull, you can't have gone and died on me. Are you listening to me, Merlin?” Arthur's voice broke. “It's not right.”

So that Arthur wouldn't give him up for dead, Merlin made himself mumble. It wasn't easy. His throat was ablaze and his tongue cracked. When the lightning in his shoulder had simmered a little he made himself say, “No incentive to heed 'ee. Calling me...” He needed more air that he'd thought to force out the next words. “...names be no right and proper.”

“Good God,” Arthur said, turning him over. “You're alive.”

“Aye.” Merlin gritted his teeth, his forehead furrowing. “That I be.”

Arthur's face set in an array of firm lines. “We've got to move, Merlin. They're on us.”

Merlin's left shoulder flamed with shooting bolts of pain. His lungs felt too small to do their work. Cold sweat sheened his body. “I don't reckon as I can.” A tear stung his eye and he blinked it away. “Just leave me 'ere an' go.”

“Not without you.” Arthur pressed his lips together. “We either both stay and get captured.” Arthur's eyebrows went up. “Or you get up and we both get back to Trevena. It's up to you.”

Merlin knew what that meant. Arthur's standing in society wouldn't save him from the Militia. Even if they made an exception based on his status and waved hanging him, they still would throw him in prison for life. Merlin groaned; his vision misted. “I-- uh.”

“Waiting for you.”

Arthur swam in and out of Merlin's vision. “'Ee'll 'ave to 'elp me.”

Arthur placed his shoulder under Merlin's good arm and pulled him upright, causing Merlin to shout. “I never said I wouldn't.”

Though Merlin could tell that Arthur was taking most of his weight, moving wasn't easy. With every step he took, new waves of pain seared through his shoulder. They made it difficult to breathe, to coordinate his movements, to shift his legs without having them fold under him. 

With the soldiers shouts echoing in the distance, they made slow work of climbing up the first stages of the incline leading up to Trevena. A few paces robbed Merlin of the little breath he had and made his vision bleed colour. The next few filled his torso with agony and his eyes with tears. “I can't be makin' it, Arthur.” His breath snagged in his throat. “I just can't be walkin' all the way to the 'ouse.”

“Nonsense,” Arthur said, pulling Merlin up when he sagged. “Yours is only a flesh wound. Nothing to complain about. Even a child would make it back to Trevena.”

Merlin gripped his lip between his teeth and hunched his shoulders against the pain. The left one ached like a live brand and his muscles cramped in an attempt to stave off the worst shock-waves that came with movement. Even so he said, “A ch'il, 'ee said. I'll show 'ee.”

Arthur failed to smile. There was a twitch at the corner of his lips but it died there. Somehow Merlin would have preferred to see him grin rather than watch his face close off and and get drawn. It wasn't at all encouraging, not that there was much to be encouraged about.

Merlin's vision was misty. The blues of night blurred into blacks to his eyes; the shine of the moonlight dazzled him till he had to blink the glamour off. His legs gave and gave and he went to his knees multiple times, feeling the shock in his teeth and in his spine. In his shoulder most of all. It fountained blood that stuck to his shirt and jacket and smelt sweet to his nostrils. Arthur kept heaving him up, his palm spread over Merlin's side, warm with the warmth of flesh, his shoulder wedged under Merlin's arm, solid and bone hard. 

Merlin gritted his teeth and rode the wave of fire that ate at his muscle. If only for Arthur, he had to make himself go on. 

Together they climbed up the bracken covered hill, pinpricks of yellow flashing at them in the moonlight, the ground getting steeper and steeper, until it sloped so hard Merlin could no longer lift his feet high enough. He went down and dragged Arthur with him. 

Gorse bushes strove high for the sky. Grass cradled him and caressed his face, long stalks brushing against his cheek and nose. 

The guards searched the ground. Their uniforms flashed red and white among the stems of grey grass. Their bayonets glinted with the reverberation of the moonlight. Their footfall shook the ground and the noise travelled to Merlin's ears until the tremble transferred to his limbs.

In a bed of bushes, Arthur rolled on his side, his breath coming hard. He covered Merlin's mouth with his moist palm, the calluses on the back of it catching on the skin of Merlin's lip. The touch with all its warmth, with the physicality of Arthur, brought a pang to Merlin's ribs. Merlin felt it in the insides of his bones and the small constituent parts of him, all the cogs and bits and pieces that made him who he was. He was sure with a deep seated certainty that if he kissed Arthur, grazed his lips with his, the pang would go. He saw himself do it too, lean up, and shape his lips around Arthur's. 

But Arthur didn't catch on. There was no understanding of the motions of Merlin's heart in his gaze. It just shone clear and true. His mouth brushed Merlin's temple when he murmured, “Not a sound, Merlin, not a sound.”

Merlin closed his eyes and sank into the pattern of his own breathing. He plunged into the cool of the night. The breeze was like water on his hot body. It washed clean the heat that burned in his chest and in his cheeks. He laid his face on the grass, which was dewy and fresh, and faded to nothing but listening.

He heard the tramp of boots on the ground and the voices calling out to each other.

“Nothing here,” someone said, sounding awfully close. “No trace of the outlaws.”

Another voice came at them from further away. “Nothing here either.”

“They must be,” a third person spoke out. “I'm positive I shot one. They went this way.”

The soldiers continued searching the cliff. Though he couldn't always make out the words, Merlin heard them shout at each other and clatter their boots up and down the path. Sometimes they brushed so close Merlin could feel them loom over him, could sense the shadow they cast over his prone body, almost feel the spin their breathing gave the air. But at length they ranged further and further away, their voices dwindling and the echo of their boots deadening.

Arthur loomed over him then, cupping his face and thumbing his cheek. “They're gone for now. Can you make it back on your feet?”

Merlin didn't say anything. He had the words. They floated in his brain but he couldn't say them. They stopped on his tongue and wouldn't come out.

“Right.” Arthur got himself to his knees, scanned the surrounding area, then grabbed Merlin by the jacket and got him to a sitting position. “You've got to listen now, Merlin. I can't carry you all the way. I would if I could but you're a grown man and I can't. So you'll have to give me a hand and walk some of the way.”

Merlin's brain was empty. It was all cotton inside. His stomach was in his mouth and he wanted to lets its contents wash up. With Arthur steadying him, he made himself stand on wobbly legs. His knees wouldn't lock but though he wobbled in place he didn't crash down again. Needing Arthur's touch, Merlin slung his arm over Arthur's shoulder and leant against him. He started walking. He'd never paid much attention to the process this involved but now that he did he realised such a simple act as ambling on required a lot of effort. With every step he took, Merlin's shoulder throbbed, and bile lapped at his gullet. His legs trembled and he went hot and cold by turns. Time and time again, his legs gave and he sank onto his knees, grabbing fistfuls of Arthur's clothing so he had something to hold on to, a fragile tether, his breathing spinning out of control, laboured and fast. 

“I be--” Merlin shouldn't really be talking. He scarcely had any breath left and he ought to conserve enough to make the last leg of the climb. But he wasn't sure how this was going to turn out and Arthur needed to know. “I be awful sorry I dragged 'ee into this. 'Ee had nought to do wi'it an I got 'ee into a sorry mess..” Merlin coughed, language unspooling on his tongue and coming out lacking in meaning. “An' all to 'elp me wi' me father.”

“Don't be an idiot, Merlin,” Arthur said, stopping to pick him up and carry him over his shoulder. “I'd have done it for anyone.”

Now that he was upside down, all the blood rushed to Merlin's head. “It do take a noble soul to do that too.”

They crossed patches of open ground and then struck out westwards, using the ditches for cover, and then went downhill to take the path leading to the back of Trevena House. They slipped in through the kitchen door and stepped into the parlour. Arthur shed coat, hat and kerchief, and sat Merlin on the edge of the settee. 

Merlin's senses swam and he swayed. Right before he could fall off his perch, Arthur grabbed him and straightened him. He hunkered at Merlin's feet, set both his hands on his shoulders and said, “I know how you're feeling, Merlin.” He cradled Merlin's face and titled his chin up. “Believe me I do. I was wounded in battle, remember?”

“'Tis no battle,” Merlin said, more sleepily than he'd intended.

“Well, actually, I think we can call this your very first one,” Arthur said. “And it didn't go too badly, right? Your father's safe and we've made it home.” He put pressure on Merlin's jaw and made him look in his eyes. “But it isn't over yet. They'll search the house.”

“The 'ouse?”

“Yes.” Arthur pushed the jacket off Merlin's shoulders. “It's but reasonable that they should.”

Merlin couldn't tell why that would be reasonable, but he supposed his brain wasn't catching up at the moment and that he'd better trust Arthur to do all the thinking. “Mmm.”

Arthur popped the buttons of Merlin's shirt open. “They're going to ask us questions to make sure we had nothing to do with the goings on at the beach.”

“Oh.” Merlin leaned forward and into Arthur's touch and warmth. It brought a fever on his senses that was different from the sick heat of his body. This one he wanted to bask in. “True.”

Arthur eased the blood soaked fabric away from Merlin's skin. “I'll dress this as best I can.” Arthur focused on unpeeling the tatters of Merlin's homespun away from him. “And you'll be fine. But I need you to hold on a little longer.”

Merlin cocked his head to the side. “What?”

Arthur managed to pull the shirt off Merlin's shoulders. “You'll have to pretend you're fine when the soldiers get here or they'll put two and two together and guess we were at the beach.”

“That do make sense.” Merlin watched Arthur get up. 

He mounted the stairs at a clop and went to and fro upstairs, the floorboards groaning under him as he moved. He came back down with a basin, wash cloth and rolls of gauze in his hands. Placing the basin at Merlin's feet, he knelt between Merlin's legs, dipped the wash cloth in the water, and applied the cloth to Merlin's wound.

Merlin winced, hissed between his teeth, and pulled back.

Arthur looked up. “I have to, Merlin.”

“For the militia.” 

Arthur combed the hair back from Merlin's forehead. “Because your wound needs to be cleaned.” Arthur sank back to his haunches. “It's good practice. Now you don't want to kick up a fuss and whine, do you, Merlin? I thought you were street tough?”

“I be as tough as nails.” Merlin stuck his chest out, drew his lips over his teeth and prepared for the pain. “See if I ain't.”

Arthur sponged Merlin's wound clean in slow strokes. Merlin leant against him, eyes closed, focusing on making no noise. He wanted to. It hurt like nothing else. The cloth caught on the wound and the margins bled and stung, burned like a brand. But Arthur was being kind, so Merlin bit his lip and let not a sound out. With one hand Arthur washed away the blood; with the other he palmed Merlin's nape. There was comfort in that. He was grounding Merlin by touch and that helped.

The water in the basin went the colour of grapes.

“You're not doing too shabbily, Merlin,” Arthur said, squeezing the cloth dry of blood. “I'll be done quite soon.”

Merlin turned a grimace into a smile. “Told 'ee I be tough as nails.”

“Yes. You've been quite brave, Merlin.” Arthur dumped the cloth into the basin and unrolled the gauze. “Unfortunately, I'm no good at stitches so I'm only going to bandage your wound.” Arthur started wrapping one end of the string of gauze around Merlin's shoulder. “When the Militia come, you'll have to act as though nothing's the matter or the game will be up.”

“I'd never let 'ee get caught.” Merlin bolstered himself for the upcoming pain. “That I promise 'ee.”

“That's not the point.” Arthur's nostrils flared and his hands stopped busying themselves with the bandages. He matched gazes with Merlin and there was something unfathomable in Arthur's, that yet shone deep and earnest. “That's completely not the point.”

Arthur finished with the bandage then disappeared again awhile. He made it back with a fresh shirt. It was clean and of good make, the fabric soft and smooth, with none of the snags that characterised Merlin's clothing. It had to be one of Arthur's. Arthur unbuttoned it and helped Merlin into it. When Merlin moaned, Arthur squeezed his fingers. When Merlin's nostrils flared with the agony that lit him up every time he so much as moved his shoulder, Arthur flattened his palms either side of his neck and talked him through it. Once the fresh shirt was on, he emptied the basin in the back yard. He made strips of Merlin's used shirt and buried them under the ashes in the fireplace. On these he placed a mound of fresh logs that smelled like moss. 

He was picking up the unused strips of bandage when a knock came at the front door.

“'Tis them.” Merlin felt weak about the legs and more than a little numb in the head. “Must be.”

Arthur blew the candles out, stuffed his kerchief and bandages into his coat pocket, then stripped it off together with his waistcoat and shirt. These items he hung in the hallway cupboard. Next he kicked off his boots and left them by the door mat. He draped the shirt he'd been wearing over the back of the tall parlour chair. He meshed none too clean hands into his hair and worked it up in tufts. When he was done with these preparations, he turned around and told Merlin, “You'll have to get the door yourself or they'll think something's up. You can take your time. They can't be sure we have anything to do with what's happened on the beach; therefore they can't raise hell in my house.”

Merlin's head was too heavy for him to be able to think strategy. “If 'ee say so.”

“Besides the household's supposed to be asleep.” Arthur said. “It wouldn't do to open too quickly, would it?”

Merlin nodded. “So what be the story?

“We had dinner, we went to sleep.” Arthur arched an eyebrow. “We know nothing about any smugglers.”

Though it made him feel vaguely nauseous, Merlin wagged his head again. “Right.”

Arthur went upstairs and disappeared past the bend in the hallway.

The knock sounded again. Merlin checked the room once last time for clues of their night activities. The tatters of his shirt were buried under the ashes and impossible to make out. The clothes Arthur had left downstairs looked out of place, but not so much so that anyone would connect them to a midnight adventure on the beach. Nothing else stood out. Now if Merlin could only act as though he was alright and his shoulder wound wasn't leaking blood under the bandages, they would all be fine.

“Open up for the Militia!” The knocking had turned into hammering. “In the King's name.”

Merlin made a show of cursing low under his breath so as to better sound like a put out household servant. “I be a-coming! I be a-coming!”

Captain Bedivere stood on the threshold, five of his men flanking him. “We're here to see Mr Pendragon.”

Merlin lifted his good arm and knuckled his eyes. “'E be asleep. We was all asleep.”

“We must talk to him, boy,” Captain Bedivere said, his voice short of a bark. 

“E won't be that happy 'ee woke him,” Merlin said, stepping back and letting the men into the house. One of them bumped into him, causing the pain in Merlin's shoulder to claw away at him from the inside. He sweated cold but managed to stay erect and say, “But you knows best.”

Merlin had barely finished huffing, when Arthur appeared on the first floor landing, hair up, bare chested. “What is all this noise!”

Merlin tucked his head down. “Please, sir, Captain Bedivere o' the soldiery be wanting to see 'ee.”

“What!” Arthur's voice went from a sleepy drawl to a high pitched sound of protest. “This is no time for a social call!” He clattered down the stairs. “It's time for honest people to be abed!” His expression grew less outraged. His eyes went smaller and his eyebrows dipped. “However, since it's the Militia, I'll make an exception and receive them. Be so kind as to let him into the parlour, Merlin. I'll be down momentarily.”

Merlin showed the soldiers into the room. None of them took a seat or did anything other than stand at attention.

When Arthur entered, Captain Bedivere bowed. It was a brief and botched attempt at acknowledging the master of the house. “Sir, can you spare the time for a brief interview?”'

“Considering you've woken me in the middle of the night.”' Arthur fastened the belt of his dressing gown with jerky tugs. “I can't see how I can avoid that invasion to my privacy.” 

Captain Bevidere tacked his shoulders back. “I must apologise. I wouldn't have called if I hadn't had a run in with the smugglers I've been after. But alas I have and I must enquire.”

“Oh, yes,” said Arthur, “I remember now. You're on the hunt for criminals.”'

“Was, as a matter of fact.” Captain Bedivere studied Arthur closely. “They escaped. All but a bunch of them. My Sergeant here--” He indicated a lanky man with a flimsy moustache. “--says two didn't manage to make it to the boat.”

“And you think I'm hiding them.” Arthur affected a laugh.”You're free to search the house again, Captain, though alas...” Arthur sent Merlin a gauging look. “You'll have to do so while we retire for the night.”

Captain Bedivere followed the direction of Arthur's gaze and studied Merlin too. “I don't intend to search the house again.”

At that Merlin blanched. He ought to have felt heartened. Another search would lead to nothing and convince the Captain they weren't guilty. But his instincts told him not too rejoice too early.

Arthur stepped between Merlin and the Captain. “Then may I pray ask what you're doing here at this time?”

“The boat that you own,” said Captain Bedivere, “was moored in Trevena cove, wasn't it?”

“Yes.” Arthur sighed. “I think I've already told you about it.”

“It's no longer there.” Captain Bedivere crossed his arms. “Have you any comment to make about that?”

“None that occurs right now.” Arthur shot bleary eyes at the captain.

“Your boat disappears from its moorings--” Captain Bedivere flared his eyes at Arthur. “--clearly taken by smugglers on the run and you have nothing to say!”

Arthur slumped. “I'm certainly not going to loose any sleep over it. I'll report it stolen tomorrow.”

“And are you as cavalier about the two free traders still on the run?”

Arthur chortled. “Are you suggesting they're going to kill me in my sleep?”

“No. That's not what I'm suggesting.” The Captain looked to Merlin. “And you? How do you feel about this?”

Merlin straightened his neck. His shoulder ached deep to the bone. “Don't know, sir. 'Tis not me place to think abou' such things.”

“So you had no brush with the free traders at all?” Captain Bedivere asked. 

“I were sleeping.”

“Neither of you saw or heard anything.” Captain Bedivere cocked his head to the side. “No shouts? No shots?”'

“Were shots fired?” Arthur asked, widening his eyes. “I had no idea it had got to that.”

“These are hardened criminals we're dealing with.” Captain Bedivere's mouth twitched with distaste. “In cases such as this one a good soldier sees himself forced to resort to violence.”

Merlin stepped off the wall. “So they attacked 'ee? The smugglers.”

“Not as such.” Captain's Bedivere snapped his eyes wide.

“Then 'ee just fired back?”

“Why the impertinent questions, boy?”

Merlin's hands worked open and closed.

Arthur cleared his throat. “Were any of your troopers hurt, Captain?”

'Not as such,” Captain Bevidere said, turning his attention to Arthur. “No one was harmed unless you count hurt pride a real injury. That doesn't mean, however, that my men haven't been running up and down the coast all night.”

“That must be tiring,” Arthur said, no tone to his voice.

“About that,” Captain Bedivere said. “Would you mind if I asked for some refreshments for my men? They're done in and they have had not a drop of water for hours.”

Merlin stiffened.

Arthur said, “I think the stove is banked for the night and we have no fires going.”

“Fresh water will do.” Captain Bedivere fixed Merlin with his stare. “Can you manage that, boy? A glass each?”

“Yes,” Merlin said, though he wasn't actually sure he could make it to the kitchen and back. His forehead was so cold and the rest of him so hot. He felt both too light and too heavy at once. Still, there was nothing for it but go or give the game away. “I can do.”

“Merlin,” Arthur said, looking at him out of concerned eyes. “It is very late and I would understand if you didn't want to work during your off hours.”

Captain Bedivere caught Merlin's gaze. “We'd appreciate it if you would go, boy.”

Merlin really had no choice that he could see. “Aye, sir.”

He shuffled out, dragging his feet, the throb in his chest echoing at his temples. Merlin's breath came too fast and rattled him from inside out. The wound leaked heat and pulsed in waves. When he got to the kitchen, he sighed with relief. He wiped at his forehead and once it was less clammy he took glasses from the cupboard two at a time. He'd got down another two, when his shirt dampened at shoulder level. Merlin looked down and saw blood tint the front of his borrowed shirt. “Oh no, not that.”

On a wave of nausea, he leant heavily against the kitchen counter and screwed his eyes shut. He breathed in and out, waiting for the queasiness to pass, for the world to right itself again and stop spinning in a mesh of colour and sound. Once the sweat on his brow had dried a little, he opened his eyes. 

He took down the last set of glasses. One handed, he lifted a pitcher and filled them one by one. When he put down the pitcher, his hand shook with fine tremors. He let it hang by his side, waiting for the twitching to subside. When it had calmed down to a light shake, he unearthed a tray and aligned the glasses on it. Set to go, he draped a big grease stained towel over his shoulder, right over the blood stain, and balanced the tray on one hand. “Right.”

The glasses shook and spilled some of their contents. If he kept going like this, Merlin would be carrying empty glasses into the other room. Even though he knew how much it would hurt, he brought his other hand up to bear. The move tore a gasp from him and set his shoulder on fire. Breathing in and out, he tumbled out of the kitchen. Teeth clenched he paused in the passage that led to the hallway. Here he stopped again, the onrush of pain blinding him to the world outside. His vision went black and his head spun. He made himself breath to his nose and start again. Putting one foot in front of ther other, he made it back to the parlour.

“Ah,” said Captain Bedivere. “I was wondering what took you so long.”

“'ad to find a proper tray,” Merlin said, speaking low so he could barely hear himself. 

Captain's Bedivere picked up a glass and drained it. “Of course.”

His arms trembling, his shirt dampening in patches where the blood that was seeping, Merlin stopped by each soldier, tray in hand. They grabbed their glass in what looked like slow motion to Merlin but must have been regular speed after all. When they emptied them, they put them back down on the tray. All the while Merlin only hoped they'd drink their fill faster.

“Well, then,” said Captain Bedivere. “Since neither of you have any idea of what went down on the beach, nor heard anything that could point to the smugglers' whereabouts.” Captain Bedivere's gaze flicked from Arthur to Merlin. “--I suppose we'd better be going.”'

Arthur and Merlin escorted the Militia people to the front door. Merlin's teeth were chattering by then and his legs got so rubbery he was sure they'd fold with every step he took. Colour and sound smeared together to the point he had a hard time making sense of what the Captain was saying. He did make out his parting shot though, “Can I give you a word of advice, Mr Pendragon?”

“Naturally.”

“Be careful who you deal with.” Captain Bedivere's gaze speared Merlin. “And of the law.”

The moment Arthur closed the door Merlin's legs gave.


	23. The Nurse

Gwen brushed her hair with the silver brush that had silver plating at its back. The plates were patterned in intricate finely etched whorls and thorn rose designs. Depending on how she angled it, they caught the light. Their reflection jumped about in round dots and splashes of colour that painted the room like the rainbow. As she let the soft bristles tangle in her hair, she watched them twirl and twine. The motion was soothing, bringing a gentle itch to her scalp, and she repeated it at a slow tempo that made her thoughts rarefy. When she was done with smoothing her curls to a shine, she pinned the first of her tresses in place, then put up a second ringlet and a third. She was threading a new one under the first, when Sefa burst in. 

She hadn't put her apron on yet and grey smudges arched under her eyes. “Mr Pendragon to see you, ma'am.”

“Arthur?” Gwen put her brush down and listened to the chimes of the passageway clock. “But it isn't breakfast time yet.”

“I know, ma'am,” Sefa said, smoothing her skirts. “But he was insistent, ma'am, and I didn't have the heart to turn him out he looked so bad.”

“Bad?” Gwen frowned.

“Distraught, ma'am.” As she searched for words, Sefa tilted her head, the cast of her countenance speculative. “He was wan and drawn, much as if he hadn't slept at all. He stuttered over his words as if he had a hard time putting them together and gazed in the distance even while he was talking to me. It was odd and I just couldn't say no.”

Unease prickled at Gwen's spine. “I'll receive him, Sefa. Since you say he was so distraught, I must. Show him into the drawing room.”

When Gwen joined him, Arthur wasn't sitting. There was an ample choice of seating in the shape of sofas, divans and armchairs, one more plush than the other, but Arthur had taken to none. Neither was he partaking of the tea Sefa had made him. The tea sat in a small blue cup smoking its heat away, slow curls of steam that got thinner the further upwards they billowed. All the while Arthur paced up and down along a cross section of the room. He did so in jerky forward pushes, about facing with a sharpness of motion that struck Gwen as atypical of him.

“If you continue this way,” Gwen said, “you'll drive furrows in the carpet.”

Arthur startled and raised his eyes to her. “My apologies, Guinevere, but I had to come.”

The space between Gwen's eyes crumpled. “Had to?” There was something about Arthur's choice of words as well as tone in which he said them that fuelled her sense of misgiving. “Arthur, you're making me nervous. Why was it imperative you come?”

Arthur raked a hand through his hair, looked away, his jaw set, then back at Gwen with such a pleading look in his eyes Gwen's heart faltered. He inhaled then said, “I need your help.”

“My help?” Gwen tried a calming smile on for size, hoping it would work its charm on Arthur. “Of course, Arthur, whatever it is, be assured you'll have it.”

“Helping me might put you at risk,” Arthur said, striding over to her, eyes wide and spirited, a little blood shot. “But there's no one else I can turn to.”

Gwen took Arthur's hands in hers and tried to put warmth in him with her touch. “Oh, Arthur. Do tell.”

“It's Merlin,” Arthur said with a catch to the throat. “He was wounded. He lies feverish in bed, and I can't put him to rights.” He slumped. “You cared for your father when he was ill. You're a good nurse. I...”

“Arthur.” Gwen let go of Arthur's hands, feeling the chill of him all of a sudden. “You need a doctor, not a friend.”

“I can't got to a doctor.” Arthur's Adam's apple took a plunge. “Not without getting Merlin hung rather than cured.”

Realisation hit Gwen all at once. It was like slamming into a body of cold water. “Vivian was right, then. Your farmhand did have dealings with the smugglers.”

“It's not as you think.” Arthur looked up sharply. “I can explain it all and none of it reflects badly on Merlin.”

“Arthur.” Gwen tried to get a hold of her thoughts, but couldn't quite. “Vivian might have rushed to panic about the bootleggers, but she's not wrong when she says they're criminals.”

Arthur shook his head. “I won't say they haven't broken the law, but I can assure you Merlin has done nothing of the kind.” He moistened his lips, his gaze dipping to the floor. “Nothing that you would disapprove of anyway.” After a brief lapse, he added, “He's in a bad way, I can tell. He's putting on a brave face, says he's mending. He even attempted to get out of bed on legs as shaky as a colt's. He's foolhardy that way. But he's deteriorating, getting quite weak, and that's a fact.” Arthur's lips briefly curled into the shadow of a smile, then his lashes fanned down and his mouth flattened. “I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't necessary.”

There was a tension to Arthur, in the way he held his body and in the manner of his speech, that told her Merlin's condition was affecting him deeply.

Before Gwen could say anything, Arthur's gaze caught onto hers. “I'm begging you, Guinevere.” 

“Let me find a shawl,” she said.

Merlin was lying in Arthur's bed under a tall mound of covers. The first was milky white, the second a rich burgundy bedspread that had all the softness of fleece, the top one was a coarser blanket of rough wool. It seemed to have been put there as a ward against the cold rather than as an ornament. It looked as though the man in the bed needed it too, for he was shivering, with his eyes tightly shut and his face lined with pain. The pain was there in the frown that sat on his forehead, in the gauntness of his cheeks, and in the twitchy little grimaces he made. 

Gwen wrapped her shawl tighter around herself and stepped closer to the bed. She hesitated for a spell, her body entering a stasis she didn't know how to get out of. Stepping into this room was like taking a plunge into Arthur. The room smelt of him; a subtle hint of his scent clung to the pillows and linens and dressing table. It was him. The furniture was carefully and sparingly aligned, with the trunk at the foot of the bed and the desk strategically placed by the window to catch the daylight. All pieces were all solid plain wood, not ornate at all. The only touch of luxury was in the softness of the bed and in the richness of its upholstery with red and gold threads chasing each other all over the canvas. 

She saw herself lying on the bed that was burdened with Arthur on top of her, his pale skin made glowing warm with the light of the fireplace, his face drawn with pleasure the way Lancelot's got when they were in bed together. For a span she couldn't tell whether the image was one of her old imaginings or a new one, and she was thrown, her mind in a whirl, her heart fluttering, her legs weak at the knees. She blinked the distraction away, sat on the stool and put her hand on Merlin's forehead. 

He burned to the touch. His skin was clammy with sweat and red splotches bloomed on his cheeks. “He's got a fever.” Gwen was aware that she was stating the obvious, so she set to thinking about the underlying causes. “It's probably the wound. There might be an infection lurking.”

Arthur nodded. He pursed his lips. “How do we know for certain?”

“We don't.” Gwen sighed. “But we can patch his wound up and see if he gets better.”

Merlin turned his head this way and that on the pillow, moaning an incomprehensible array of words.

Arthur, however, seemed to understand him for he leant over him, palmed his forehead and said, “It's all right. You're not needed on the farm till you feel better.”

Merlin mumbled something else, the dialect so thick on his tongue Gwen again failed to understand him.

Arthur sat on the bed and reached out, touching his palm to Merlin's hand, his fingers reaching towards Merlin's wrist. “Now don't be an idiot.” His tone had lightness to it and was teasing but his expression was nothing like his words. His forehead had deep furrows, his lips were compressed and his eyes were sad, full of woe.

Gwen saw with a pang that upset her heart what this was about. Love for Merlin was painted in broad strokes all across Arthur's actions. It was etched on his face and reflected in the depths of his eyes. The notion left Gwen groundless and breathless. It hurt like nothing else had hurt before. It set the core parts of her awry. For the longest moments she was so weighted down with the knowledge that she could neither act nor think. When she could speak, she said, “I'm not sure I can make much of a difference though.”

“You must try!" Arthur said, his hand still on Merlin's though his eyes were on her. “You're his only chance.”

Gwen could see why Arthur thought that. “Arthur, you must call a doctor. He needs assistance of the kind I can't provide.”

“Guinevere.” A look of pain crossed Arthur's face. It folded his eyebrows and misted his eyes. “I promised you I would put no pressure on you and I don't intend to.” A broken sound issued from his rib cage. “But I don't know what else to do.”

It wasn't prudent and it sat wrong with her but Gwen could no longer deny Arthur. “Have the servants boil some water.”

Gaius and Alice carried in steaming vats whose vapours curled inside the room and made the air in it thick. They brought in fresh white towels edged with lace and crisp wads of bandages just in from the chemist's. They set these materials on the table, paused by the bed and stared at Merlin. They asked no questions, neither about Gwen's presence, nor about Merlin's health. They tipped their heads forward and touched Merlin's hands and brow and said prayers for him. They weren't by the book psalms. At least they weren't prayers Gwen had heard spoken before. But they sounded heartfelt in their simplicity, genuine. They had the soporific cadence of a lullaby, the unshakeability of faith. They resounded within Gwen's body and lay the seed of peace within her. When Alice and Gaius were done with their invocation, they lingered a moment on the threshold, glancing anxiously at the bed, before retiring downstairs.

"Shouldn't we give him something?" Arthur asked, tilting his head at Merlin. "Against the pain?"

"I wouldn't know what." Gwen could probably sew Merlin's wound up but that was the extent of her skills. Her knowledge stopped right there. Drug prescriptions weren't something she could wrap her head around. She wished this wasn't on her, that the responsibility wasn't hers at all. But one look at Merlin's drawn face moved her to the realisation that she had no other option. "But if you can think of something other than getting him drunk, I suppose he'll welcome it."

"Opium," Arthur said. "I still have some of the dose I was given for my wound."

Gwen knew little about the substance but she wagered that something against the pain was probably better than nothing in the circumstances. Merlin would be grateful. “Get it."

They fed Merlin the opium. It dissolved in water tinting it a slight red colour. They stripped him of his shirt, a cotton one with open laces at the collarbones that still had the smell of Arthur about it. Then Gwen checked Merlin's back for exit wounds. There was one, a tiny reddened hole angry and uneven at the edges. It was shot through with darker threads of flesh, the skin blackened by the all the tearing the bullet had wrought on it. Old blood had caked around it in crusts. "I suppose I won't have to do any fishing for the musket shot."

"Where did you learn about such things?" Arthur tipped his head up. 

"When you went to war," Gwen said, trying not to sink into the memory of it, of the fears she'd once harboured. “I read everything I could about the conflict. Some of it was informative and--" She pulled a grimace. "--and some of it was gruesome."

She boiled the needle and used the finest thread Alice had and worked it into the eye. Stitching skin was nothing like sewing pieces of fabric together. It caught and was hard to pierce. Above all it bled when pricked and Gwen had to dab and dab at the tissue she was knitting back together. She stopped from time to time. She did so when she could no longer see past the bleeding or when she came upon a snag. Merlin lay mostly silent with his head on the pillow, his hair sticking to his skull in wet strands that clung to each other. Every now and then he moaned and his face went askew with pain. His mouth would pull, his muscles go taut and Gwen wouldn't know whether it would be safer to proceed and put him to rights or give him some momentary respite.

She dried her forehead with her elbow, focused on steadying her hands and started again. The wound closed little by little. It became a raised ridge of angry red and by and by it stopped bleeding. Soon it no longer oozed even the littlest drop. The thread shone white in between the flesh elevations, patterned taut and zigzagging between jagged constellations of skin. 

When she was done with the front, she did the back. Once again she pushed the needle in and waited for the yield of skin, then pulled it out, the line of thread catching the light. She passed the thread under and above, wove it through patches of skin, until the margins fit together and the wound no longer issued any blood.

When she was done, she wiped Merlin's brow with a kerchief. With Arthur's help she clothed him in the shirt he had worn previously and pulled the blankets over him. When Merlin fell asleep, his breathing slow and laboured, Gwen said, "Now we can only wait."

The night a storm brewed, battering the windows, pushing the wind through the chinks between the panes and the frame. It blew through the chimney and whispered under the doors in the shape of a draught. She perched on a chair with a a blanket on her legs and a shawl on her shoulders. A cup of tea sat on the table next to her. It had a tang of orange to it and was spicy but she didn't drink any of it. Neither did she read the book that lay open in   
her lap. Its pages were crispy with the wear and tear of fingering and the leather had grown soft. Even if she hadn't put her mind to perusing even a single line, handling it felt good.

"You've done what you could,"Arthur said, when he entered the room again. "I can have Gaius drive you home now if you want to."

"No." Gwen couldn't share her feelings with Arthur but she could at least be of help to him. "I'll see this through."

Arthur sat at Merlin's bedside all through the night and the next day. While Gwen napped in the next room, Arthur stayed awake. When Gwen went down for some warm food and a breath fresh air, Arthur stayed in the master bedroom. He lost all the tan to his complexion and his face greyed. The space under his eyes hollowed and his presence diminished. He didn't stand as tall. He occupied less space. His shoulders drooped at a sharp angle.

Merlin did badly. He sweated and thrashed and raved during the night. His eyes – when he opened them – did not track and were hazy. He spoke of people Gwen didn't know. They sounded like colourful characters, larger than life friends and enemies. In fact Merlin's delirium hinted at a past that was beyond the pale of any reference she had. Names and places had a tang of mystery to them. She wondered about then – who Kilgey was and where Tregonissey was. She asked herself who had been such a staunch friend Merlin still joked with them as if they were present and puzzled over the identity of the person who given Merlin such a hard time that he'd plead and argue in his garbled feverish talk. When he was at his most agitated, Gwen would hush him, lean over him and wipe his burning brow dry. "It's all past now, shh, gently, gently."

She'd give him sips of water and changed his shirt when his became too sweat soaked. 

Arthur fwasn't idle either. He fetched and carried blankets, emptied the pantry for items Merlin might want but ended up not needing, rode all the way to Redruth for more medicine. When he came back he paced the room. He did it when Merlin was sleeping and mostly moaning quietly but rushed to his side the moment Merlin got agitated. To soothe him Arthur told him tales of his youth in an easy steady tone. Gwen had never heard any of them before. They were domestic tales of stolen chickens and the neighbourhood fox, of dried up wells and Arthur's favourite coves. They were nostalgic stories and painted Uther in a kind light. Arthur's voice broke over those reminiscences, sounded younger, had ring to it that Gwen didn't recognise in it. 

Merlin didn't comment and didn't wake.

“What are we doing wrong?” Arthur asked, slumping against the back of his chair, his hair up in clusters, his eyes shot with defeat.

“Nothing.” Gwen walked the length of the bed, a hand on the foot-board. “We did nothing wrong.”

“What if he...” Arthur's eyes were big and lost and his mouth pursed. “What do I do if...”

Gwen wanted to wrap her arms around Arthur and tell him nothing bad would ever happen to him. But she couldn't guarantee a positive outcome and she wouldn't lie to him. “The worst hasn't happened yet.”

“No. No. But I feel...” Arthur's hand closed over Merlin's. “That all the good things slip through my fingers.”

Gwen lowered her head. “That's not a given, Arthur. Destiny hasn't it in for you.”

They matched gazes, Arthur dipped his lashes and nodded, throat working. “He's hot as coals.”

Merlin's fingers twitched within Arthur's grip and Arthur shot Gwen a hopeful look. 

“See,” Gwen said. “You must hope. Hope can achieve great miracles.”

That was Merlin's worst night to date. They sat him up in bed but he wouldn't eat or drink and when he opened his eyes his pupils were blown and his eyes were unseeing. He spoke to people who weren't there, calling them by name, looking into the distance, as if someone was flitting by just behind Gwen's back. It was unsettling and made Gwen sweat cold. The more so since a persistent rain had set in and lightning played hide and seek with phatasmagorias of shadows, To soothe him, she rubbed his forehead down with a wet rag. But it didn't help. Merlin continued his raspy monologue. Knowing than more needed to be done, Gwen gave Arthur the cloth. Arthur sat Merlin up, propping his body against his, head on shoulder and started stripping him. With gentle hands he unbuttoned his shirt and the slipped off When Merlin was bare but to his smalls, skin white and shiny with perspiration, the outline of his cock stretching the threadbare fabric on one side, Gwen went into the kitchens. In her absence Arthurcould go to the other room could give Merlin a proper whole rub down with an alcohol soaked rag. 

"How is he?" Alice asked as she made her a cup of tea.

"Not good." Gwen watched as Alice cleaned a gold enamelled tea pot. "Not good."

When she got back upstairs, Merlin had quietened. A while later He fell into a fitful sleep broken only by sobs and other wet chest noises.

When Merlin's fever broke on the third day, Arthur smiled the first smile in days. It was awkward and crooked, backlit by the aura of exhaustion, but it was there.

"Do you think he'll make it?" Arthur said. "He's not so hot to the touch anymore and he's breathing much more steadily, but all in all I still can't tell." 

"He's better," she said.

"But..." Arthur contemplated the man in the bed. "Perhaps I should ride to Truro. They always have the newest medicaments in Truro."

Gwen exhaled. "Arthur, you ought to get some sleep." She flicked up an eyebrow. "You won't be helping anybody if you're hardly conscious yourself.”

“He needs me.” Arthur moistened cracked lips. “I couldn't... If he died when I was not there. I...” He seemed to gauge his words. “I wouldn't be able to forgive myself.”

“I understand.” Gwen didn't fully understand how Arthur's feelings for Merlin had progressed in the headlong way they had. But she knew how hard Arthur would fight for the people he cared for. “But he won't be happy if he wakes to find you sick.”

“No, but--”

“Arthur.” Gwen tucked her head to the side. “Be rational. What use can you be to him when you can hardly stand upright? You'll be much better help once you've slept and had a proper meal.”

It took a while to persuade Arthur, but in the end he agreed to sleeping downstairs on the sofa. 

Alone in the room with no one but Merlin, Gwen bestirred herself. She changed the water in the basin, swapped Merlin's pillows for fresher and plumper ones and put new flowers in the vases scattered around the room. These ones were lilac and weren't drooping as the ones she'd just thrown away had. “Much better.”

She must have made too much noise, for Merlin stirred and said, “Don't 'ee ever feel said for the flowers what need to be scrapped.”

Gwen whirled round, hand on her heart. “Merlin! You're awake! You scared me.”

“I be awful sorry I did," Merlin said, trying to sit up. "I were not tryin' to."

Gwen hurried to Merlin's bedside. "Hush. It was silly of me to get wound up over so little."

Merlin looked about the room. His eyes progressively flared as he did so. "'Tis be the master bedroom."

Gwen fluffed the pillows at Merlin's back. "Yes."

"Where be Arthur?" His eyes searched the room. 

Gwen eased him down with a hand on her chest. “He's downstairs. Asleep.”

“Why downstairs?” Merlin pushed the covers off him. “Did 'e go downstairs because I've 'is bed? I can go back to me room now.”

“No, Merlin.” Gwen forced Merlin down and stretched the covers over him. “He's downstairs because I have the guest room, Merlin. If anyone ought to give up their bed, that's me.”

“Why do are 'ee in the guest room?”

“Because I've been living here these past few days, looking after you.” Gwen tucked Merlin in, then played with the fringes of his blanket. “That's why.”

Merlin's brow got as lined as a roadway map. “Why 'ave 'ee being doing the likes of that?”

There were so many answers to that question. Arthur had asked her. She'd been raised to help the weak and the helpless. But none of this were quite the right one. “Because I had to.”

“No, 'ee didn't?” Merlin looked at her with a measure of confusion etched on his face. “'Ee barely know me.”

“True.” She considered not saying the words. “But Arthur loves you.”

“No, 'e don't.” Merlin laugh, the laugh got harsh and he coughed. “He be a good master though.”

“He loves you.” In spite of the weight of the words, the way they thrashed her heart, Gwen made herself say it again. “That's why I'm helping you.”

“Because 'ee believe that be what 'e'd want?” Merlin asked. “'E'd want me to be fine anyway. Love or no.”

“Because I considered not helping at all, letting you recover or not as fate would have it.” Gwen picked a loose thread from the her sleeve, toyed with it, head down. “Because knowing Arthur had moved on from me and onto you hurt me. But then I thought how horrible that thought was. How reprehensible. How it went agianst everything my dear father ever taught me. I was so appalled. I had to do my best to help you.”

Merlin breathed in with a loud exhale. “That don't make 'ee you bad.”

“It does.” Gwen couldn't look up. “It was not a good thought. It was a cruel one. So I promised myself I'd atone for it. I told myself I'd save you.”

“An' 'ee did.” Merlin shifted in bed as if testing his body for signs of failing. “At least I think 'ee did.”

“But that was just a stroke of luck.”

“That don't matter. I be fine.” Merlin licked his lips. “And that be what matters. Not bad thoughts, but actions. They do speak louder than words an' stupid fancies. Passels o' ol' lap they be." He studied Gwen's face with such candour Gwen had never seen the like before. "But aren't ee happy wi' Mr du Lac?”

Gwen got up and poured Merlin a glass of water. “I am. I love Lancelot in ways that I didn't think were possible when I first met him.” Gwen put the glass in Merlin's hands, helping him cup it. “My marriage is a blessing to me and warms my heart. But I couldn't help but think of Arthur as... as mine in a way. It was not so far in the past that I've learnt to think of him as someone on the finges of my life." She threaded her hands in her lap. "I know I had his love and I was glad to think his feelings for me were true. I dreamed they would be constant. For a while longer at least.” She nudged her shoulders upwards. “Of course I wished for him to be happy. I was sure he'd marry one day. I fancied I wanted it to. One day. I merely didn't expect him for it to be so soon.”

Merlin held the glass in his hands, his grip feeble and subject to spasms. 

Gwen leant over him and helped him to drink. She watched the water wet his lips and heard the sound of his gullet working. 

“'Ee be kind,” he said, looking at her out of wide blue eyes. “An' good.”

“I'm selfish.”

He shook his head with a sharp side to side motion. “No. If 'ee was, 'ee wouldn't be a-nursing me.”

“It isn't so easy.”

“Oh, that it be.” Merlin gave her the glass back. “That it be.” He smiled genially. "An' please te stop that there glumping. It don't fit you. Smiles do."

She smiled.

Merlin fell asleep. He did so with a little sigh, the rise and fall of his chest decreasing in momentum, his body going quiet. Often she had to bend over him and put an ear to his chest just to make sure he was breathing. But he was. He was pushing air in and out of his lungs with a comforting steadiness, with a stubborn tenacity that made her think he was a fighter. She rearranged the blankets over him and the pillow too. She patted his hand and found it warm with the warmth of health. "You'll be well yet."

Over the next few days Merlin barely stayed awake and ate little. But his fever didn't go up again, he talked some, and he managed to fight his way out of bed more than once. He leant on Arthur to take strolls to the window and back, his legs taking more of his weight the more journeys he made. His side was plastered to Arthur's and his hand curled around his shoulder in a tight-knuckled grip. 

Arthur, for his part, suited his pace to Merlin's, made sure to carry most of his weight when Merlin's legs buckled, and teased him to do better constantly. Whereas Gwen would have advised rest and caution, Arthur egged Merlin on, telling him he had to get back on his feet because the barn roof wouldn't fix itself. He hadn't hired a farmhand to get a gad-about. At first Gwen couldn't understand Arthur's attitude and went against him. She told Merlin that Arthur was wrong for saying that and not to listen to him. She said Merlin ought to take his time. He was allowed to be lazy while recovering. She wrapped blankets around his shoulders, put warming stones at the feet of his bed and fed him strong tea and hot broth. When she understood what Arthur was at though a smile bloomed on her lips, and she stopped coddling Merlin.

On the fifth day Merlin tottered all the way downstairs on a challenge from Arthur. He went down the first flight in bare shaky legs and in an over-large shirt that couldn't have belonged to Arthur it was so big. He stood at the foot of them on limbs that looked like they would fold, then he pushed off, crossed the hall, opened the door and smelt the air. “The sun be red. A redder one I'd never seed.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Merlin,” Arthur said. “Everybody knows the sun's not red.”

“'Tis be.” Merlin's knees gave.

Arthur started forward and caught him. “This is what you get for prattling nonsense, you weak numbskull. Let me get you to your room.”

Though he may not have been able to stand on his own two feet for long, Merlin had improved. He didn't sleep quite as much and had fresh retorts ready for whenever Arthur teased him. His eyes had lost that faraway look and his skin was rosier. On the sixth day of her stay at Trevena Gwen told Arthur, “I wrote Lancelot. I'll be going home tomorrow.”

“Of course.” He straightened his neck. “You must be missing your home.”

In a way she certainly was. Not the things in it and not even her routines, but the steady flame of Lancelot's love she did feel starved of. It usually fanned the warmth in her blood and in her body. It set her heart a glow in a way that she missed. It was what she needed now. “It's not only that though. Merlin's on the mend now. All he needs is some quiet, some country air, which he has plenty of, and more of Alice's wholesome food.”

“He will have all of that, rest assured.” A light dusting of pink coloured Arthur's cheeks. “"I must thank you." Arthur shuffled in place. "Without you he may have... he may not..."

"I did very little." She had acted blindly, trusting that everything would just fix itself. Both Merlin and her soul through his mending. "He's young and healthy and that's what saved him."

"That isn't fair." Arthur's brow pursed. "By coming to stay here you risked the ill will of the authorities and your reputation. We all know what gossips are like. No one else would have dared as much or come through so beautifully."

Light-headedness swept Gwen off her feet. "You're still attributing praise where praise shouldn't be given." Her actions didn't deserve any. "But I'll call myself content if I can speak to Merlin one last time before I get back home."

Merlin wasn't lying in bed. He was sitting in the window alcove with a homespun blanket wrapped around his shoulder. It had checks and tassels and was a little worn in places, the fabric worn smooth. His nose was pressed against the window and the pane was fogged up were his breath hit its surface. Without turning around his head, he said, “There be a carriage an' prancing horses in the front yard. Are 'ee going?"

"Yes." Gwen toyed with the laces of her bonnet. "My place is at Dower."

Merlin turned his head round. "I'll be missing 'ee."

"I don't see how you can seeing as I wasn't the best of friends to you, not at all times."

Merlin smiled as if he knew a secret she didn't. "You was though. In deed. And that be all that do count."

Gwen said, "Tell him what you feel." Heat brushed her skin. "He won't act, if you don't tell him. He's too much of a gentleman to do anything that might be viewed as taking advantage of a servant. You know him. Tell him.'

Merlin's cheeks plumped as if he was about to push all his breath out in a burst of indignation.

Before he could, Gwen said, "I need to be going."

She was aware of Merlin's presence at the window as she stepped into the carriage and left Trevena.


	24. In the Small Hours

Arthur drew back the blankets, slipped off his slippers and slid into bed. He leant over the nightstand and turned the oil lamp up. Once the glow of it was bright enough, he opened the book. This one belonged to a circulating library; it bore its stamp on the first page. The stamp was faded at the margins, the ink smudged brown, but the date of the loan was still clearly legible. March. 1782. It was more than a year old. Arthur's father must have failed to return this copy. Arthur's smudged a thumb down the page and smiled softly. “So unlike you such a failing. And yet here it is.” 

He turned the page and it stiffened with his touch. He started on the foreword. It was wordy and heavy going, with all the weightiness of terms that were too complicated for the sake of clarity. The convoluted logic of the phrasing had such an old world feel to it Arthur couldn't help but be compelled on, be reminded of his father and his ways, his quirks both of speech and manner. He was a few sentences into the text, when the door creaked open and the floorboards moaned.

Arthur looked up from his reading and saw Merlin. He was shuffling from foot to foot, tugging at the sleeve of his nightshirt. It was undone at the collar and bones showed sharp in between the gaping swathes of fabric. He twiddled with his cuff and said, “Why are 'ee sleeping in this small draughty room?”

Arthur shut his book. “Because you have mine.”

Merlin took a step forward, one back, and another two in the direction of Arthur's bed. “It ain't right.”

“Merlin,” Arthur said, resting the book on the nightstand, “what else do you expect me to do? Chase you out of the room when you're recovering and in need of the most space and comfort?”

“'Ee don't knaw A from a duck's track,” Merlin said, balling his fists and curling his mouth in a downward swipe. “I be fine now. 'Ee don't need to walk on eggshells 'round me.”

“I beg to differ.” But a few days ago Merlin's fever had been so high he was raving. “You're still sick.”

Merlin set his mouth in a thin line that looked like stubbornness. “I be hale.”

“No.” Merlin had lost not only weight but muscle mass as well. Over the months since Arthur had hired him Merlin had buffed up. Now all that was gone. All that Arthur could see was thin wrists and stick-out joints. Merlin needed as much rest as he could get before he fully recovered. “Your health can't improve if you keep sleeping in that tiny room of yours.”

“It were fine before.”

Arthur sat up and slammed his fists on his thighs. “You hadn't come close to dying before!”

“I ain't dying now.” Merlin scowled, then he shook his head and let his expression mellow. “I won't 'ave 'ee sleep in this...” Merlin's head went up and down as he studied his surroundings. “Cramped dingy room—”

“I beg your pardon, my house is fine enough as is!”

“An' if 'ee won't 'ave me move.” Merlin said that as though Arthur hadn't spoken at all. “We can share.”

Arthur fisted the blankets. “I couldn't possibly.”

“I be not dirty.” Merlin lowered his head, causing shadows to play upon the keen angles of his face. “I washed. I can wash again.”

“That's not—” Arthur clamped his mouth shut. “That's not what I meant at all. I know your respect my rules for cleanliness.” Arthur bit on the inside of his lip. “Sleeping in the same bed is merely not proper.”

“Why?” Merlin asked, his head tipped back. “What be wrong with it?”

Could Merlin not know? Arthur thought he'd leaked his feelings far too openly for Merlin to not even suspect. That he didn't, strangely enough considered Arthur's need for secrecy, left a wound just as deep as the tight rein he had to pull on himself did. Merlin's ignorance of Arthur's feelings was both a blessing that would save him and a slight to the soul that had to be borne. Arthur's ribs panged with a dull thundering pain in proximity of his heart. “Nothing is.”

“Then why can't we be a-sharing?”

That was a question Arthur was not in a position to give an answer to. 

Book in one hand, lamp in the other, Arthur followed Merlin across the landing. The light painted his skin white and sharpened his body into a solidity of angles, a multiplicity of lines cast sharp in the penumbra. There was a new drive to Merlin's gangling forward, a new ease to his stride that had had surfaced when his recovery started. Merlin had the cutting tongue of a boy, but he'd developed the moves of a man. 

He eased into bed without a word, pulling the covers up to his lap, his back to the headboard. 

Arthur set his lamp on the bedside table and his book next to it. He sat on the bed facing away from Merlin, his feet on the fleecy rug and in hands on his thighs. He breathed in and out and but his heart didn't stop bumping in his chest and his spine didn't stop burning. With one more exhale, Arthur pushed the covers aside and slipped his legs under them. He placed both hands on the top curl of the sheet's hem. Though Merlin had slept here, they were cool, pristine, fresh with the crispness of autumn. “Tell me when you want me to turn off the lights.”

“I weren't sleeping.” Merlin nudged his shoulders into a shrug. 

“Is it because of what haunts you?” Arthur turned his head and caught sight of Merlin's profile. “Whatever you were raving about when you were running a temperature?”

“What? No!” Confusion notched Merlin's brow. “What did I ever say that were that bad?”

“Something about Tregonissey.” At first Arthur had dismissed Merlin's words as the ravings of a sick man, but the more Merlin jabbered, the more Arthur realised he was talking about his past and not fancies hailing from his nightmares. “You kept on mentioning it. I thought it must have some relevance.”

Merlin opened and closed his hand in a gesture that pulled his tendons taut. “That were the place I grew up in.”

“Is that were your mother's farm was?” Arthur had no idea where that was; he only knew Merlin was born in it.

“No. Our farm were in Helston village.” Merlin's face darkened. “Tregonissey were the poorhouse I were sent to when me mum died.”

The pang in Arthur's ribcage bloomed hot in his bones. “Merlin, that's...”

In a rustle of sheets Merlin leant forward and grazed the line of Arthur's jaw bone with his fingertips. He brushed his lips against Arthur's, fitting his against them. They were warm and soft and fat at the top. They cushioned Arthur's with a gentleness of touch that made of Arthur's heart a cracked thing whose shards ached in his chest – something that was Merlin's for the taking.

Merlin drew back and said, “'Tis not what I want to talk about, Tregonissey.” He licked his lips. “I want to lie with 'ee an' if you want it too then let's.” 

Arthur's world came to a grinding halt and plunged in a chasm of choices. He could refuse, tell Merlin he was his master and that his position forbade him from taking advantage. Or he could give in and yield to the want that had long sat in his bones and in his skin.

When Merlin kissed him, Arthur lips were open, parted for speech. He didn't say anything, couldn't quite utter that denial, for Merlin dipped his tongue inside Arthur's mouth and licked at Arthur's. It was all warm and soft and Arthur settled into it with a sigh, the fires of it fanning low at his spine. Merlin sucked on his tongue, banked the kiss into a crushing of lips on lips, then raked his teeth along the bottom line of Arthur's lower one. “Tell me 'ee want more.” Merlin murmured the words against his lips, the tempo of them branded on Arthur's skin. “Do.”

“If we do this,” Arthur said though the words came hard and slow, “we'll set tongues wagging. It won't be easy. We won't be--”

“Like lawful wedded people?” Merlin arched his eyebrow. “Likely not. Would 'ee think it unclean?”

“Never that.” Arthur didn't want Merlin to believe Arthur thought him unworthy. Because he wasn't. He was the opposite of that. “But it won't be as clear cut, as unobjectionable.”

“I don't want it unobjectionable,” Merlin said, cupping Arthur's face, the imprint of it shaping itself on Arthur's skin. “I want it true, like this.”

He kissed Arthur, deep and long and unabashed, wet and hard, all at once. He stroked his hands down Arthur's spine, finding the hem of Arthur's nightshirt, and pushed one under it, his palm wide and hot at the small of Arthur's back, the tips of his fingers bushels of fire, the base of it rough with the calluses of hard work. Arthur had a fancy he could count each one, feel the ridges at the bottom of his fingers, the toughened sections. Then again he probably couldn't, for his thoughts were scattering, thinning with Merlin's touch, his hand at his neck, his mouth on his, open for him.

Arthur's lungs felt small and his nostrils flared with every intake of breath. No, in all honesty, he probably couldn't count to two.

Merlin nuzzled at Arthur's throat, base and sides, brushing soft lips along the lines of it. He laced his collarbones with kisses, and sucked arbitrary patches of flesh into his mouth, working them between his lips till they bloomed with an ache that hurt in Arthur's guts.

When they pushed apart they were both gasping, Arthur's eyes on Merlin's lips, his thoughts on the rhythm of their kisses, the tempo of them, the rich softness of Merlin's mouth. Merlin seemed to be able to guess what Arthur wanted with a near preternatural ability. He took Arthur's tongue in his mouth, cradling it there, touching it with his own, tasting Arthur's breath, till Arthur felt stripped bare.

Arthur had never been brought to his knees by the breathlessness of a kiss, the wild reciprocity of it, the hunger of it. He was achingly ready for more. He touched Merlin's face, feeling the bones, probing the skull, the cheek-bones, the jawbone, the brow. He stroked his hand down the back of Merlin's neck, toying with the curls dampening at his nape. He clutched Merlin's waist, getting a feel for the shape of him, the span of it.

In one deft move, Merlin peeled his shirt off. 

Arthur kissed his shoulder, the tip of it that was all hardness underneath, then bit at the flesh. He squeezed the top of Merlin's thighs and glanced his palm along Merlin's cock. It fattened his smalls, dampened them where the tip of his cock sat.

Merlin sucked in a breath, the hiss of it sharp. Arthur got his hand inside his waistband and slid his palm down the length of Merlin's prick. He was hot there, wet at the slit, the vein fat under Arthur's fingers, warm with the pulse of him. Arthur gave him a tug, searched the cock-head with the apex of his index finger, found the dip and teased it with a nail.

Merlin surged, moaned deep, put his lips on Arthur's and his tongue in his mouth. He kept pushing into Arthur's grip, his hips motioning forward in sharp stabs. His breathing was all broken off sobs. As they kissed, Arthur worked his hand away from Merlin's front and to his buttocks. He grabbed one cheek, kneaded it, from base to spine, and again in reverse motion in slow strokes of his hand. 

At that Merlin made a noise. It was low in his throat and a little gruff, nothing Arthur had ever heard from him before.

Arthur pushed his middle finger into Merlin's cleft. His flesh was damp with the stickiness of perspiration, of sex, but soft. Arthur pressed into the dry pucker and the skin yielded around his knuckle. Inside Merlin was smooth, the skin grasping, fragile soft. The thought burned Arthur's cheeks, fired his imaginings. He pictured the stretch and yield of flesh, almost sensed the quality of it. The hardness and the smoothness. He couldn't assign an identity to the body parts, not yet. But his fancy, however lurid, grew tenderer and tenderer by the moment and the graphic detail of it gave way to something sweeter. He imagined achieving love through the motion of bodies and the perfect satisfaction of his partner. 

He saw some of the signs of it in Merlin now, in the bright reddening of his face, in his mouthing of Arthur's lip, and in his broken keening. Wanting to close the gap between imagination and reality, Arthur worked his finger in and out of Merlin, thrusting it as deep as it would go. Merlin grunted and kissed him a filthy kiss, open and wet, with their tongues in the space between their mouths. 

Arthur circled the rim of him with his other fingers, felt the ridge and the hole.

Merlin sucked Arthur's upper lip into his mouth, gave it a lick with the tip of his tongue, then breathed, “Wait.”

With a creak of the springs he was off the bed. He undid the laces of his homespun trousers. They were wet at the front and the tip of his cock peeked past their waistband, the bulge of it thickening the fabric lower down. They slid down their legs with ease and pooled at his feet. “They be filthy already,” he said, climbing back into bed. “I wanted to spill so bad. When you had your fingers in.”

“Good Lord.” Arthur had had bed partners before. He wasn't as pure as he might have wanted to be. Once he'd thought he would only have sex when he came to his marriage bed. But life hadn't taken him down that path or perhaps he himself had made choices that had gone counter to his early picturing of himself. Even so he'd never wooed courtesans and paramours. Such frank talk as Merlin's was nothing he'd ever heard before. “Come here.” He made a grab for Merlin. “Come here.”

Merlin crawled forward on the bed, knelt behind Arthur and turned him around, so they were back to front.

“What?” The word came out of Arthur as a croak and none too steady even as far as those were concerned. “What are you doing?”

“I liked it so much,” Merlin said, easing down Arthur's breeches and wrapping his hand around Arthur's cock. He held his prick it in his palm. “I want to do it to 'ee.” He murmured that in Arthur's ear. “Because I want to give 'ee everything.”

Arthur couldn't talk. He didn't think he could force a word past the knot in his throat. It was tight and fat and it didn't allow him to swallow. He nodded instead, a wide wag of the head that could leave no room for doubt.

“Hold your shirt up.” Merlin twisted his smalls off in a swish of fabric. 

Arthur held the tails of his own shirt in a knot he clutched tight. “Like this?”

“Yes.” Merlin put a kiss to the top notch of his spine. “Yes.”

The kiss undid Arthur's spine, turned it to a mass of no substance at all.

When Merlin put the tip of his cock to Arthur's hole and circled it round, finding all the snags of his flesh, Arthur went soft on the inside. “I--”

“Not puttin' it in yet,” Merlin said, stamping his lips along the length of Arthur's nape in an up and down motion that partly soothed and partly put a simmer to Arthur's blood. “I be not senseless. I'll open 'ee up first.”

He did it with the pads of his finger and the head of his cock. Only the very tip, with the slit just poised against Arthur's rim, nudged into Arthur. It was blunt and dull but at this Arthur's blood quickened and warmed. This blooming of heat was an undoing Arthur wanted more of. He pushed back. 

Merlin opened him wider, with more fingers and forward nudges of his prick. He only paused when he was seated mid way in. 

Arthur wished he could see how this looked. Merlin's cock would be fat and red and still partly out and Arthur's skin would be teased to rawness around it. It was so close to his earlier imaginings that Arthur's insides knit and his cock-head got spongy with pre-come. 

He could scarcely hold it in anymore, his body whipped to a fine tremor, his mind a riot of expectation, his heart riddled with hairline cracks all over. Waiting for the moment of full joining was the worst of it. He couldn't be sure his heart wouldn't break with it. He couldn't be certain he wouldn't come too soon. He couldn't know whether he would be good at tuning his private rhythms to another's, whether he and Merlin would find perfect satisfaction in this.

When Merlin slid the last of the way in, Arthur could feel the touch of his body along his back, his breath on his neck. When Merlin pulled out and inched back in, shivers of pleasure skittered up his back in bright bursts. They squeezed his neck, setting his tendons to rope-like tautness.

As he stroked him on the inside, Merlin pulled him to him, his hands gliding down his front in broad swipes. He brushed them round his flanks, round the jut of them, and touched him with a touch that seemed to stake a claim on Arthur.

There was an intensity to it that was staggering. Arthur now knew the tempo of Merlin's body. Its strength and breakability. He was cognisant of the rhythm of Merlin's heartbeat and the cadence of his breath. It was coming fast, in teetering stumbles that puffed past Arthur's ear, with little measured grunts looped at the end. He knew the feel of his cock, and the residual power of his body. He'd seen Merlin at work on the farm, his body yielding to toil with ease, but this was nothing like it. There was a natural drive to this that was wild and reckless and full of the abandon of life.

Arthur swallowed, past the lump in his throat and the snag in his gullet, and threw his head back. He closed his eyes and his world became pinpricks of light and the smouldering that licked at the base of his spine. It was unbearable and not something Arthur never wanted to end. But end it must, he knew, for the flesh cannot sustain peaks such as this. He pricked his ears for the hitching in Merlin's breath, the stuttering of it. He detected it the moment he looked for it and knew they were both nearing orgasm. He sank into the moment, groundless and grounded, and let himself be pulled adrift into it.

When he knew he was close, he touched the jut of his own cock. He held it in his palm, without tugging or stripping it, because the gentlest coaxing would set him off. 

Merlin rocked back and forth, his pulls steady, an in and out of gliding flesh catching on flesh. The sound of it was loud and all that there was. Wet, insistent, in your face. A slapping like a chastising.

His body broken by shivers Arthur could feel the ricochet of, Merlin put his hands under Arthur's shoulders and gripped tight. His thrusts got sharp, angled upwards, erratic. When Merlin came, Arthur felt Merlin's lips at the top of his spine and the wet of his come inside him. Before Arthur could bear down on him and get more of the feel of it, Merlin slipped out. He turned Arthur around and pushed him flat against the pillow.

He kissed a trail up the soft of Arthur's thigh and took him his mouth. He sucked lightly at first as if taking the measure of Arthur. It wasn't a challenge; it was kindness, a probing of Arthur's need. It was as though Merlin had become aware of how infinitely breakable Arthur was now. When Merlin's lips sealed further down him, Arthur was lost for breath. His hips drove forward, the shock of it both tender and harrowing. His felt his cock catch in Merlin's throat, felt the snag of his swallowing against the head of his cock. Merlin didn't give any sign of distress, but drew back a notch, his lips stumbling over the thickness of the raised veins, on the ridges that formed the crown of his cock. He tickled the underside of it, and flicked his tongue back up again, licking the head clean of all fluid. At that Arthur's nerves endings lit up like flares that played close under his skin. His heart raced and Arthur feared the collapse of its strings it hurt with such zeal. 

Merlin lapped his tongue up and down the length of him, light and teasing, before pushed his lips downwards and clamping them around the base.

Arthur arched off the bed, the jut of his cock in Merlin's mouth, the base of it shiny with Merlin's spit. He threaded the fingers of both hands in Merlin's hair and cupped his skull, holding him to his crotch. Merlin looked at him then, an up flick of a glance, and Arthur's body took to burning from head to toe. As he looked his fill of Merlin, registered the burn of feeling in his eyes, Arthur's heart expanded with warmth for him. Noises spilled from his lips and among them were broken promises he made Merlin. Maybe they sounded incoherent, but Arthur knew what he meant, what this was to him, and what import those promises had. Would have.

Granting him a moment, Merlin let up a little and slid Arthur's cock off his lips. He didn't speak though Arthur thought he might, but pinned him with his gaze. It was a warm and gentle one, full of the burden of affection. It made Arthur Merlin's through and through. 

Wrapping his fingers at the base of Arthur's cock, Merlin broke the spell of inertia, of intimate knowledge, and sucked him back down. 

It was sudden and wet and shivers whipped Arthur's skin into bumps. Tears misted his sight, and his body stopped being his own for all the trembling he was doing. He hitched his hips into Merlin's mouth in small incremental moves that became sharper and less controlled the more Merlin worked him raw. He bucked and thrust and circled his hips in wild short flexing motions. Then he shut his his eyes to a tightness that hurt, tossed his head back, and felt himself gush.

When Arthur opened his eyes, one side of his face was wet with tears and his cock was slick with some of his own come and Merlin's spit. His head was light and his body unfettered, lax and weightless both. 

Merlin leant forward, crawled over him, body hot, and settled on top of him. He slotted their mouths together, found a good fit for their lips, and bumped tongues with Arthur, feeding him his own taste. It was strange and tangy, and there was a measure of embarrassment to wetting his tongue with his own come, but Arthur laved Merlin clean of it all the same. All through it, Merlin's hands held his head and his mouth stroked his again and again in a pattern of catch of release that made something flutter and come unglued at the base of Arthur's spine. The kiss opened and became lax and lazy. With their mouths clamped together, they rubbed each other's lips fatter, their tongues tumbling over each other, their mouths snagging on chins and stubble and on soft folds of flesh. By and by it all slowed down to a catch of lips on lips.

“Can 'ee sleep now, Arthur?” Merlin said.

No, Arthur never could again, because his heart was still thudding in his chest and the lax weight of Merlin in his lap made his flaccid cock want to rise and find a fit in Merlin. “Can you?”

“Aye,” Merlin pushed Arthur flat on the bed, then settled himself to a cmfortable position on top of him, covering him like a blanket, their torsos fitting, his head on Arthur's shoulder and his legs either side of him. His cock was soft and nudged against Arthur's flesh with the easy laxness of spent arousal. “Aye, now I can.”

As Merlin fell asleep, Arthur felt the easing of his breathing. Arthur cradled an arm round him and found the fit gave a jolt to his heart. In that moment Arthur thought Merlin his with a keenness that frightened him.

Dawn painted the room colourless and made Merlin's eyes pale. Arthur considered returning to his temporary lodgings in the other room, making sure no one would find out about them, and saving Merlin's reputation from evil gossips, but Merlin pulled him against him and kissed his mouth. He did so at length, going deep, with plenty of sucking and rubbing and playing tag with each other's lips. He toyed with Arthur's nipples and wrapped their legs together, bone smacking against bone, and skin catching on skin, with a knocking of knees and twining together of pairs of feet. He scored his hands over the soft flesh of Arthur's arms and torso and belly and cupped him warm within his palm. Arthur spilled without a second thought or any foreplay. When he was heavy with the residue of orgasm, Merlin traced his lips all over Arthur's body, the plumpness of them alighting softly on the hardness of his chest, the arch of his ribs, and over the indentations of his muscles. When Arthur was mad with the delirium of it, Merlin spread Arthur's legs wide and fit between them, sealing his mouth around Arthur's hole. He entered Arthur with his tongue, licked him inside, and around until Arthur was dripping with it, wholly drenched, his breath gone in the grunts he released into his fist. 

When he was done, Merlin went on his knees with his back to Arthur, his legs either side of Arthur's torso. Arthur could spot the cording of his muscles and the flex of the broad swipe of his back. He held himself open with hands that had some unsteadiness to them and bent down. “Do me now,” he said. “Like I did 'ee. Put your tongue in me and fuck me wi' it.”

When he put his mouth to Merlin, Arthur's hands trembled, his body shook. His heart climbed to his throat and his face stung wild with the notion of what he was about to do. He couldn't think this was something entirely licit, had surely never done it before, but he wanted to. For Merlin and himself, for if there was someone he wished to know everything about and be carnal with that was Merlin. He penetrated him with his tongue and took his balls in his mouth and sucked on his flesh till it got soaked with the dripping of his spit and fluttered against his lips.

After Merlin had stained the sheets with his come there was no talk of relocating, of Arthur keeping up appearances and making things look proper for the household. The household would take it or go to hell. As for others, those who had power to harm, this would stay a secret, but not one he would be ashamed of in his own home. He fell asleep where he was, the sheets too hot with body heat, too pregnant with their odours.

By dint of sex and over time, they learnt intimacy. By spending their nights together, seeking each other out, they found out what they didn't know about each other, what Arthur thought he'd never get to suss out about another person. They got the intricacies of intercourse with each other, the rhythms and patterns of it, of their nakedness, of their passion. Merlin could be both vocal and eerily silent, taking or giving with no more than a sigh. But irrespective of how he made his passion plain, he always said what he wanted, didn't go skirting round the subjects of his desires, made them plain with a bluntness that was foreign to Arthur's world of manners, where sex was an act you partook of, but didn't comment on. He'd take Arthur by surprise and leave him breathless with the earthiness of his needs. He'd make it so matter of fact Arthur would find himself wanting to hear more of Merlin's requests, more of his open discussion of bodies and want. He'd probably never give up his own reserve on the matter, but fell absolutely in love with Merlin's lack of it. 

Often when he was with Merlin he found he had no geography for what they were and no idea as to what they should do. He had no frame of reference and no code of conduct. He'd broken them all and was left with no rules – not that he wanted any to abide by any anymore. He was basking in the rudderlessness of it, in the impromptu beautiful folly living like this was. He rather longed for his life to stay the same as this for as long as he was allowed. And though more often than not he felt as if his organs had shifted and he was left with too small lungs and too big a heart, he had no fear of it. His heart squeezed and bumped inside him and it broadened with all that he felt when with Merlin and he didn't think he wanted it to learn manners now.

They must perforce teach each other how to fit too and the process wasn't entirely free of hurdles. They had to learn how to share a space that was by virtue of who they were to each other no longer neutral. They couldn't be master and servant anymore and cohabitation was now different in all the ways it could be. When their bodies didn't lock together, when they were quiescent in repose, they had to find a way to be around each other that didn't mean reverting to their previous boundaries, but wasn't a forcing of intimacy when intimacy wasn't in the books. They must forge new outlines for their relationship. They had to fit the parts of themselves that weren't meant to match and make them tally. They had to be taught patience and compromise. With their tempers it wasn't always a given. Like Arthur, Merlin didn't always talk much and they had to skirt their mutual silences, tiptoe around them when they would come up. 

And then there were their nights.

Sharing a bed when the house was quiet with all but the noises of old wood and mortar came with some effort at adaptation, a surrendering of independence, but it wasn't something Arthur would have given up for the world. He liked the feeling of a presence close at hand sharing his space. He liked the smell of another in his bed, the scent one he could pick out on sheets and pillow cases and in the hot air between them. The room would smell of resin from the fireplace and Merlin and it was a tang Arthur's nostrils flared drunkenly with. In the morning Merlin's skin would be rough with the abrasive bristliness of stubble, but his lips would be quite as soft as always. 

They'd open in welcome, slow and sure with the indolence of the early hours. Merlin would kiss Arthur's face angle by angle and he would taste his lips, shallow and deep and everything in between. He'd climb on top of Arthur and trade in kisses for the longest time until Arthur thought he knew the anatomy of Merlin touch by touch.

These nights were so much a part of the fibre of Arthur, they weren't something he would sacrifice, not for gentility, not for manners, and not for his good name. But there was one matter Arthur still did not rest easy on.

They were kissing, a snag of lips on lips, when Arthur said, “I don't know you, do I?”

Merlin frowned at him. “What are 'ee talking about? 'ave I robbed 'ee of all sense?”

“The past.” Arthur stroked the backs of Merlin's arms from elbow to shoulder. “Your past. There's so much that's obscure about you.”

“Nothin' be though.” Merlin vaulted off him. “There be no secret nor no big mystery. I be what I be and that be the end of it.”

“Merlin,” Arthur said, and he didn't know if he was expressing exasperation he blamed no one for or if he was reprimanding Merlin for his secretiveness. “That means nothing.”

Merlin mocked a sigh. “'Ee be curious.”

Arthur scratched his gaze away from Merlin. “I feel like I... What am I to you if... There's this face you put up for the world and I don't want to be treated to it. Or if I am, then...”

“I ain't hiding from 'ee.” Merlin cupped his face and his eyes gentled. “I be quite pledged to 'ee.”

“Then why--”

Merlin's thumb pressed on the plush of Arthur's lips. “Mine be a sad tale, though there's good to go wi' the rough.”

“Life in Tregonissey can't have been easy.” Arthur didn't think it could have been. He had known hardship in his own way. War was riddled with it. But he couldn't imagine the kind of experience Merlin had lived through, had no compass for it. Without it puzzling Merlin out was like putting together pieces of different contraptions. They would never fit. “I can't imagine what it must have been like, and I have no craving for the knowledge, but I need to know.”

“I don't get it,” Merlin said, pulling off him and lying by his side, his back resting against a tall stack of pillows. Eyes down, he played with the hair on his chest and stuck his lip out. “I honest to God ain't getting it. Why would anyone want to know about livin' in the spike? It be grim and sad. It be a place that takes yer 'ope and crushes it right early. It draw the sap out of 'ee. Oh it do. An' I weren't goin' on grand an' at times I thought I were never getting out. An' that would be it. Me life. But I did cope and get out.” A smiled threaded itself on Merlin's lips. “Don't 'ee forget about the good either. I weren't lying abou' it. There were master Kilgey to 'elp me out.” His smile broadened. “More 'ardened than a hound he were and wily, but as good a mate as child ever 'ad. An' I found 'im in the grubber.”

Merlin told him his story then, or at least segments of it that he had kept to himself before. While parts of his tale did away with Arthur's heart, they also mended it in some ways. Arthur wouldn't ask again, wouldn't press for more details, though there was sure to be a life time of them there for the telling. He'd had to ask. His asking had put him on the right course, on the track for the right action, but there would be no more of that. Once was enough.

“An' can I kiss 'ee now?” Merlin said. “Or do 'ee want to kick me out o' this bed?”

“You can kiss me now.”


	25. The Deed

Merlin ran the brush up and down the rail, covering the wood in new paint. It shone white and clean, covering blemishes and air pockets. Merlin fancied that on a fine summer day, a day unlike this one, it would glimmer in the sunshine and be visible for miles. It would be a sight for sore eyes and make of Trevena the loveliest farm in the whole area. But it would never get like that unless Merlin saw to his job now. The old brow paint was coming off in dry flakes all over the post and smudges of it powdered down like snow. That needed seeing to. Once he was finished with this section of the rail, he would have to start on it. He needed to be finished before the rains set in again. He dipped the brush in the tin of paint, shook off the excess dye, and applied it to the wood crosswise before filling in the margins and evening the coat out. He was doing the corners, when he heard the clop of hooves.

He craned his neck upwards and saw Arthur on Hengroen. Arthur had his cocked hat and grey raincoat on. It was flapping in the wings, borne on by the wind. Hengroen clopped across the moor at a slow pace, his flanks going up and down with the motion. When Arthur gave him rein and the horse turned a fraction, Merlin saw that Hengroen was carrying a second rider.

Dripping paint brush still in hand, Merlin rose to his feet and shielded his eyes to look into the distance. Mists twirled over the heath and though they were not thick Merlin couldn't make out the man sitting astride Hengroen.

Merlin sealed the tin of paint closed, left the brush in a pail of cold rain water, and made it past the fence to the open road. Once there, he squinted and focused hard on the figure on the horse. He only saw a brown sou'wester on top a bobbing head and the folds of a tattered cloak wrapped around a set of large shoulders.

When Hengroen cantered into the farm road, Merlin almost faltered off his feet. His head spun and the muscles in his chest stiffened. His heart fetched him a blow and then he let himself feel it. Eyes wet with the emotion of it, he said, “'Ee ager toad, ye're alive.”

Kilgey slid off the saddle and onto his feet, tottering a little before he got his balance back. He slapped the horse on the rump, turned around, took a few hefty strides, and pulled Merlin into a hug. “Of course I be, 'ee piljack. “Of course I be.”

Merlin sniffed, clutched tight at the fabric of Kilgey's cloak and, without minding the layers of dirt and grease that it was coated with, clapped him tight on the back. “I thought 'ee must be dead. After all these years, I thought 'ee was gone.”

“Soss and Imperance!” Kilgey said, squeezing Merlin tight. “Me hide be as though as an old dragon's.”

Merlin stepped back from the embrace, eyes as misty as the vales up in Perranporth on a cold winter morning, and trained them on old Kilgey. Ropes of new wrinkles scored his face. His eyes, always grey as the sea, were now milky with old age. His face had broadened and lost in sharpness, his chin folding in several places. But he was the same man Merlin recognised from his past. His shoulders were stooped but just as broad. The lines around his eyes hinted at humour, the kind that had made Kilgey both fascinating and mysterious to Merlin as a child. And his gaze had the same amused wryness about it. “I just thought...” 

“That I'd croaked,” Kilgey said, clapping Merlin solidly on the shoulders. “But no, I haven't. Stiff as a crutch I may be, but I haven't met me maker yet.”

“I bet 'e didn't want the likes of 'ee to pass them pearly gates,” Merlin said, dabbing at his eyes with the back of his hands. “Ee'd 'ave made the one upstairs vexed as sin.”

“That be very funny, Merlin, very funny.” Old Kilgey shifted from foot to foot. “But instead of mocking an old man and starin' like a stat, why don't 'ee get me inside?”

“Oh. I be that sorry.” Merlin offered Kilgey his arm so they could walk into the house. “I weren't thinkin'.”

“I can make it by meself, me and me ol' bones, thank 'ee very much.” Kilgey shrugged him off. “An' whenever are 'ee thinking, boy?”

As he walked with Kilgey back to Trevena, Merlin looked at Arthur side on. He smiled, bright and wide and trembling for all of the feelings tumbling his heart.

Arthur nodded, once and curt, but his expression was light, with a curve at the edge of his lips and eyes that were full of the shine of pride, of happiness perhaps. 

Merlin wanted to show Kilgey into his own room, sit him on the chest and give him tea and swap stories with him. But Arthur ushered him into the drawing room instead, as if old Kilgey were one of his mine investor friends, with all the pleases and by your leaves that would have been voiced if Kilgey was that kind of guest. He asked Alice to make tea and saw to it that Kilgey was seated on the plushest armchair closest to the fire.

Alice came into the room bearing a silver tray and teapot. With her head high, she waddled up to the side table and, sparing Kilgey's threadbare outfit and holed mittens only a cursory glance, she set the tea things down. With a steady hand, she poured the tea and questioned Kilgey as to his preferences, how much milk, how much sugar, any honey.

Kilgey, for his part, answered in as polite a tone as Merlin had ever heard from him, calling Alice ma'am, thanking her for her kindness on his behalf, and flirting with her, asking her where she'd learnt to tend house so beautifully and whether she was married.

Alice blushed, told him she was, put an extra dollop of cream on his scone, right on top of the jam, curtsied and got gone.

Merlin drew his lower lip under his teeth and tried not to smile. “So, what 'ave 'ee been up to all these long years?”

“Been movin' around,” Kilgey said, stuffing a scone into his mouth and washing it down with a slurp of tea. “The great bussas at Tregonissey said there were no more space for me. So they sent me on to the St Austell's union work'ouse. Them tusses, treating a man of me standing like an ole rag. When they put it in their 'eads to pack me off to Trewhiddle, I got meself out. I spent a few years roaming the country.” Kilgey wagged his eyebrows. “I got as far as London itsel'.” His shoulders sagged. “I stayed a few years, but big towns don't agree wi' me, wi' all the fog and dirt. So I thought I'd check myself back in the poorhouse. The folks at St Blazey got the honour o' 'aving me. A jolly ole poorhouse it be.”

Merlin couldn't imagine this was entirely voluntary, that Kilgey had had any other option, and he felt a twinge in his insides at the notion. “I wish you hadn't had to go back. I wish I'd been there to lend a 'and.”

“Nonsense, boy,” said Kilgey, picking up another piece of pastry. “'Ee could have achieved nothing. Done nothing. The likes of thee never can.”

Merlin snorted. “Thee’rt some teasy.” 

“That I be. That I be. I'll own up to it fair.” Kilgey chewed on a rather large piece of jam tart. “'Ee haven't told me what 'ee've been up to yerself ever since 'ee fled Tregonissey.”

“Them first few years was tough.” Merlin found the memory of this came much easier now that it was all in the past, sealed there, never to come back. “But then I found me some good seasonal jobs and got me back on me feet.”

“Farming were 'ee?”

“Aye.” Through the years Merlin had learnt so much about the rhythms of the land, the slow tempos of winter, when the earth was hard and ice-packed, and the bustle of summer with the push of plants' growth. He would never stop valuing that skill. “Like me mum.”

“'Ee do she proud.” Kilgey cleaned his hands on a white napkin, leaving sticky imprints all over it. 

“An' then I ended up 'ere and met me father – there were some ol’ comfloption." Merlin probed his scar with his palm. "An now I be here.” Merlin locked glances with Arthur, a dimple to his cheek. “To stay. Till I grow old and stooped preferably.”

Kilgey's bushy eyebrows twitched upwards and he studied Merlin from under them. Then he switched his gaze onto Arthur, lingering on him perhaps longer than he had on Merlin. He said nothing, however, and ended up focusing on the tray in front of him. He wiggled his fingers over it and picked the scone with most cream and jam piled on top. He stuffed it in his mouth and licked his fingers free of sugar. “So,” he said, before he had wholly gulped his morsel, “who were this father of yours?”

Merlin hesitated only a second before saying, “'is name be Balinor.”

“Ah, Balinor! I knew 'im once.” Kilgey nodded his head and stared into the distance. “I went on a few runs for he.”

Kilgey told them the tale of his first meeting with Balinor. Balinor had just taken over from Taliesin, a smuggler who'd run operations between Northern France and St Ives and he'd been keen to show his leader mettle even if he was then one of the youngest members of his band. “I were a old hand meself and 'e greener’n kewny. But so stubborn were 'e, he did 'ave 'is way an' captain all of us.” The mission had been successful but only because of Kilgey's imput. His stratagems had won the day and fooled the excise men. A daring getaway from Launceston Castle had been involved. Under the cover of a storm, Kilgey told them, the captive smugglers had filed away at the window bars. With their pallets sheets they'd made a rope, which they'd dangled out the window. They'd scooted down the rope, clinging to it for dear life, until they'd touched ground. With a well-aimed blow from behind, they'd taken out the guard patrolling the base of the tower, trussed him up, and left him in a cellar. Following the course of the Tamar to its source, they'd made their way to safety.

Kilgey spun a tale that lasted over tea, well into the evening and over dinner. By then night had drawn in in the way of autumn and the fires had been stoked up in view of the coldest hours of the day. Regardless of the passing of time, Kilgey went on talking. He sat in a high backed chair, behind a fat tureen he kept systematically emptying of its contents, telling them about his past as a smuggler while waving his ladle about.

Every now and then Arthur interrupted with a question or a comment, asking for details as to this or that colourful event. As for Merlin, he could only smile and listen, sink into the tones of Old Kilgey's conversation, his burr and lilting cadence, the depth of his voice, and bask in his surprise presence. Kilgey's yarn sounded like a bed time story. It had all the mystique and charm of it. It tasted like childhood and marzipan and sweet honeyed things.

When dinner was over, Kilgey stood. He said he'd been o'er happy to see Merlin but that now it was time for him to go back to St Blazey. “Me and me grubber mates will be drinking to 'ee tonight.”

Arthur cast his napkin aside, drank the last of his port and said, “Absolutely not. You're sleeping here.”

Shoulders out, voice ringing clear and with some heft to it, Kilgey said, “I will no' impose, that I won't. I may be a poor lem, but I were taught manners just fine.” He flexed his shoulders. “Besides, I promised the lads at Blazey that I'd 'ave a game of dice with them and I couldn't go back on me promise. 'T wouldn't be seemly.”

“You're a guest of mine and as such I won't hear of you going abroad at this time of night,” Arthur said. “Alice will have your room ready for you.”

A narrow canopied bed with a wooden frame dominated the room Kilgey was to occupy. A wash-basin stood on the night stand and on the bed sat a pile of clean towels. Even from afar they smelt of lavender and lime and of the fresh herbs Alice often gathered. A cabin-trunk covered with a spare lace doily stood at the foot of the bed. Against the wall opposite camped a very small desk and a little book-case bent by the weight of old cheap tomes.

Kilgey trailed inside the room, scoped his surroundings like a reluctant feline, and said, “It ain't no palace, but it'll do for the night.”

“No.” Merlin put his eyes to the floor and his lips stretched in a smile that bubbled over from the joy playing under his skin. “This place do fall far 'neath yer standard, I do get it, but 'ee'll 'ave to make do for the night.”

“Aye.” Kilgey went about the room picking up objects -- a candlestick, a bible, a pewter dish. He sauntered over to the bed and sat on it, testing its springs. “But for the night.”

Merlin stood. “Kilgey...”

Kilgey looked up. “An' what do 'ee want now, boy?”

Merlin twitched his shoulder. “I be glad ye're 'ere.”

Kilgey waved him off. “Stop wi' all that nonsense, boy. It do make me all flustered.”

They parted for the night with a swift embrace and the words, “Get thee gone now, boy.”

Feet clopping hard on wood, Merlin rushed downstairs, opened the door to Arthur's study and smiled from ear to ear. “I don't know 'ow 'ee did it--” He sucked in a breath, trying to tamp down on the giddiness that made him want to jump up and down and burst into song and rhyme. “But thank 'ee.”

“It was easily done,” Arthur said, looking up from a nest of papers. “But you're welcome.”

Merlin knew it couldn't have been. If Kilgey had been moving around through the years, tracking him from workhouse to workhouse must have been a feat. A lot of time and effort – not to mention money to grease palms – had to have gone into looking for him. “I...” Merlin sidled from foot to foot. “I never thought I'd see 'im again. I be over happy e' be fine, alive an' kickin' after all. I--” He tipped back his head and inhaled sharply through his nostrils. “It make a difference. It...” He palmed his heart and wiped at his nose with the back of his arm. “It be a good thing.”

Arthur pushed off his seat at the desk and came to stand in front of Merlin. He squeezed his shoulder. “Sometimes when one can redress the balance...” Arthur's throat worked and he dropped his gaze, moistening his lips. “I felt I had to try.” Arthur rushed the next words out, blurring them in a way that wasn't typical of him. “You do deserve all the happiness.”

Merlin shifted sideways, then forwards, and pressed his lips to Arthur's. “I--” His was shallow kiss, no tongue, just a supple graze, a token. His fingers caressed Arthur's face, brushing its lines, then slipped downwards towards his neck. 

In return, Arthur curled his hand around the slope of Merlin's shoulder, palmed it. He breathed out through his nostrils and parted his lips on a soft sound. Merlin felt the shiver in him and leant in to deepen the kiss, but Arthur pulled away. “There's something else I wanted to say.”

Merlin dropped his hands and tilted his head. “All right, do tell.”

Arthur stepped back behind his desk and opened a drawer. He took out a bundle of papers, white, wide sheets stamped with wax and ran all over with thick lines of ink. “Read this, please.”

Merlin laughed. “Are 'ee testing me skills?”

“No.” Arthur looked at him intently. “That's not it. Just... Just read it, please, Merlin.”

Merlin had been making progress with his reading. His convalescence had provided ample opportunity for it and Merlin has spent many mornings sitting on a tree with a book open on his legs, a finger tracing the words his lips were trying on for size. But a quick scan of the page told him the wording of the documents Arthur had given him was tough to crack. Most terms were longer than Merlin was used to and a lot of them were ones he had never heard before. “This be about Wheal Ygraine.” At least that word stood out clearly with the name repeating throughout the text. “Otherwise with all these legal patter it do sound like a cheapjack's yammerin'.”

Arthur cocked his head to the side and smiled. “Well that too. But what it actually is is a deed of transfer.”

“Transfer o' what?” Merlin squinted at the page; then, when the answer to his question didn't make itself clear, he scowled at it. “I don't be getting it.”

“A half of all Wheal Ygraine shares, barring the profit that's due Lamorak for investing,” Arthur said, bending his shoulders back, “is going to be transferred from me to you.”

“What?” Merlin made bug eyes.

“I'm giving you half of the Wheal Ygraine shares.” Arthur looked straight ahead and to the left of Merlin. “The property is now fifty per cent yours.”

Merlin dropped the papers on the table. “No.”

Arthur's brow pinched. “I'm afraid I don't understand. Does that no mean that you don't want them?”

“That be exactly what it do mean.” Merlin couldn't possibly fathom what had led Arthur to do this, to give him all of this, shares in a place that had belonged to his family for so long the site had become synonymous with Pendragon. “No.”

Arthur reddened. “But it's only fair. You found the silver vein. You led me to it. Without you I wouldn't have invested in the mine and restored my family's fortunes. It's your due.”

“It don't mean anything.” Merlin looked sharply down. “The bal be yours and no one else's.”

“The mine was worth nothing before you. Nothing. It languished inactive for years and years.” Arthur turned his face away and his lips thinned. “Besides, that's the only way I have to acknowledge...” Pain flickered in his eyes and put the shine of near tears to them. He bowed his head and added, “It's the only way I have of giving you something in the way...” Arthur's words came slow and few in between. “...in the way Lancelot did Guinevere. He bought Dower for her and I can't do the same for you.” He licked cracked lips. “But I can show my gratitude for your efforts on behalf of Wheal Ygraine and--”

Merlin's chest got tight and pain pushed at his eyes, scalding them to a burn. “No,” he said. “I won't be bought for nought.”

Arthur rearranged his face in lines of consternation, a red dusting flushing his neck. “That's not what I meant to do by transferring the deeds to you.”

“Then take it back.” Merlin pushed the papers at him. “Take 'em all back.”

“I won't,” Arthur said, drawing himself up. “That's the only way I can provide for you.” Hurt narrowed his eyes. “If something happened to me--”

“I could look after meself!” Merlin threw his hands up in the air, smacking them against his sides when they came down. “As I've always been a-doin'!”

“I know that.” Arthur's shoulders crumpled and his jaw, staunchly squared until now, relaxed. “Believe me, I know. But that doesn't change how life is, how a man in your position...”

“A common man, 'ee mean.” Merlin said that with a sneer, an ugly pull to his facial muscles he wished wasn't there or directed at Arthur. “I do get it.”

“Now you're wilfully misunderstanding me.” Arthur's eyes flashed. “And putting words in my mouth--”

“'Ee said a common man 'as no way to fend for himself.” Merlin marched over to the fireplace and let the transfer deed fall behind the grate. The edges caught fire with a bright spark that curled the paper and turned it brown. “'Tis be all I need to know.”

Arthur's face fell, his gaze saddened and darted to Merlin with such desolation that Merlin's anger abated in waves that left him cold. 

Arthur's voice was low and measured when he spoke next. “You're twisting this into something it isn't, Merlin.”

Merlin didn't reply to that, couldn't let himself yet. Arthur's words, his idea of Merlin as helpless -- lesser -- pricked him to the very heart. The sting left aftershocks he felt all over his body. “I don't want yer money. I be not for sale and not in this for any silver.”

“I never thought, not for a single moment, that you were.”

“That mine be yours, Arthur.” Merlin wished he could explain what this concept of property meant to him. It stood for boundaries but it was also a signifier of what Merlin wasn't interested in. He wanted Arthur to see and understand what that meant, the ramifications of it, but knew he wouldn't be able to explain himself. Sometimes he hated his lack of eloquence, his inability to put the subtleties of his thoughts into words. “Yer family's and yer legacy. Nought to do with me.”

“I--” Arthur exhaled hard, his shoulders dropped and he slapped his hands against his sides. “I want to share with you. You're not something... separate. That's not how I think of you.”

Merlin looked to the document he had cast on the flames. The bundle was now no more a thin wafer of greying paper charring at the edges. The words that had made Wheal Ygraine his – or partly so – had long faded and the material itself was now crumpling and segmenting. Merlin's lungs expanded with relief but a bad taste still sat on his tongue. “But 'ee thought to give me money, that I'd be happy wi' it.” In the same way he'd been glad to see Kilgey again. “An' I can't be.”

Arthur's lips pushed together and outwards.“No, I see that now.”

“I don't want to be hurting 'ee with this,” Merlin said, quite helpless in the face of Arthur's disappointment in him. He didn't know how to dam it, how to make it better for him, and wanted to. But he didn't want to go against his instincts, sacrifice his integrity. It was the only thing he could call his. “But I can't take them shares.”

“I see.” Arthur blanked his face of expression. “You don't want anything of mine.”

“It ain't that!” Merlin shook his head; raked his hands through his hair. “It be so 'ard to make plain. But it aint' that.”

“Try.”

Merlin was at a loss to. His feelings, so clear to him they were as sharp as a stab, wouldn't be expressed into words Arthur could understand. “I be that sorry.”

“I see.” Arthur angled his head away.

Seeing as there was no reaching an understanding, Merlin said, “I need to clear me head.” He pressed the heel of his hand to his temple. “I need to go outside.”

Arthur's eyes travelled over his face. “If you must—”

“Aye.” Merlin held his head up, hardened his muscles and pushed his shoulders out. “I must.”

Outside, the air was cool. It felt good on his bare arms. It spurred him to mindless action. He wandered across the yard and down a slope and into the meadows and stood between deep furrows, the earth redolent and soft under his boots. He held his head against the weight of his thoughts and the hard beat of his heart at his temples. He emptied his mind to nothing but it. Birds cooed in the faraway trees and the sea rustled on the shore. Merlin tipped his head back and looked at the sky. Pinpricks lit it up like a spasm of light and a moon slice shone from its mid-climb perch. 

Merlin threshed across the countryside, not following paths, but going through gaps and over walls. He climbed up inclines and stumbled into dips. He trekked along briar overgrown paths and cut across the fields. They ebbed away towards the dark of the horizon line. Together with the tang of salt, there was a chill in the air, a whipping fierceness to the wind. Autumn was burning across the moor, baring and drying spinneys, seeping away heat from the soil and from the herds still out for the graze. As he trudged along the slopes of greying fields, Merlin started to feel the heaviness of his muscles and the cramping of his feet. His soles coated themselves in mud and he got cold and sorry for himself. 

When he got back to the house, everything was dark, except for the light coming from under the door of Arthur's bedroom. It leaked out onto the landing and down the passageway in an orange spill. 

Arthur was sitting in bed, papers he wasn't reading strewn across his knees.

When Merlin entered, he looked up, put them away, but didn't say a word.

Merlin edged towards the bed and sat on its rim on Arthur's side, one knee under him and his leg out. He ducked his head and hummed under his breath. He turned a notch and gazed at Arthur.

Arthur had his eyes on him, wide and blue.

Merlin took his face in his hand, waiting for a flinch, a shunning of the eyes, any sign of anger or mistrust. But Arthur showed none and did none of those things; he only looked at Merlin, expectant, still.

Leaning forward, Merlin fit his lips to the core of Arthur's. He kissed him gently, eyes open to read Arthur's reactions, suiting his to Arthur's wants.

At that Arthur's eyes gentled and he opened with a soft noise, rising into the kiss, his hand warm at Merlin's neck, pulling him in. There was no anger in his gaze or in his lips. There was no animosity to his touch, so Merlin deepened their kiss, stroked his hands outwards, fanning them up Arthur's back and round his sides. Arthur touched skin too, moulding his hands to Merlin's body, seeking its angles and its soft dips. 

Quietly, Merlin moved away from him and took off his clothes and loosened himself with oil. By the time he went to him again, Arthur had thrown off the covers and bared himself. When Merlin straddled him, Arthur grabbed his hips.

When Arthur entered him, Merlin bit his lip. He levered himself up and down, slow and careful, so as to feel all the snags of flesh, and Arthur moved with him. With each forward motion, he grunted, and Merlin keened himself, a sound that vibrated around his vocal cords and burred in his chest. 

Arthur felt heavy inside him. Hot. His nails indented Merlin's flesh, digging in deep. His thrusts were shallow, had a short span, but they made Merlin's breath stutter outwards in a light fog that warmed his own face. 

Arthur reached for Merlin, his hands swiping up his back in broad imprints of his palms, and Merlin stumbled forward, locking their lips together, seeking the hot blooming at his spine, moving on top of Arthur with a determination to find it, to tap into that, the harmony of pleasure. 

Arthur rolled hips into him, in short, small jabs. Soon they shortened and Arthur came. Merlin only let go when he put Arthur's hand around himself and he felt the warmth of him. Then he dribbled come in thick spurts. 

When his breathing evened out, Merlin said, “I be that sorry. I shouldn't have burnt your papers. That were wrong and petty an'... wrong.”

“You've changed your mind then?” Arthur said, hope shimmering in his eyes.

“No.” Merlin leant his forehead against Arthur's. “I still do not be wanting all that money.”

Arthur stirred. “Merlin--”

“I 'ave nothin', Arthur,” Merlin said, making sure to be looking Arthur in the eyes when he came up with the words. “An' if I keep havin' nothing, then the only reason I be your man is because I want to be. If I had them shares...”

“It wouldn't change anything.” Arthur massaged his shoulder, thumbing at the expanse of his skin, the smooth and ragged patches of it. “Nothing at all.”

“Folks'd think...”

“They'll think what they want to think,” Arthur told him. “And nothing will stop them. When they realise I won't be marrying, when they realise you're not moving away from Trevena, they'll start gossiping.” Arthur dropped his gaze and wetted his lips. “But I thought we were agreed we'd weather it together?”

“I want to be by yer side, always.” Merlin kissed the top of Arthur head, made it a vow. Unless Arthur wanted him gone, Merlin would die at Trevena. “But I want to keep me pride too.”

“I don't see how accepting the shares could possibly hurt your pride when we both know what's your due and how far from self-serving your motiv--”

Merlin vaulted off Arthur and put a finger on his lip. “I know I be letting 'ee down, but I feel like I 'ave to on this.”

Arthur studied Merlin's face and his own softened, the veil of defensiveness that had shrouded it lifting. “I don't understand it, but I will act in accordance to your wishes.”

Merlin fixed his stare on Arthur. He seemed honest about wanting to forgive Merlin, about not pressing further. The tightness in Merlin's chest turned to warmth. “Are we fine?”

“Yes.” Arthur laid himself on his side and ran his hand down Merlin's arm. He twined their fingers. “We were never not fine.”

“I don't want to quarrel wi' ee.” Merlin still could kick himself over his reaction over the deed. “Ever.”

“I suppose we must sometimes,” Arthur said, putting pressure on Merlin's fingers. “But that doesn't mean I...” Arthur let his lashes dip a notch. “It doesn't mean that I haven't committed to you, because I have.”

“'ave 'ee?” Merlin made a silly face and tried on a smile . His muscles shaped themselves around it in tremulous shakiness but the grin stayed put. “'Tis quite a grand announcement.”

“There may be no rings or grand ceremonies--” Arthur's Adam's apple took a dive and his gaze came up to Merlin's face. “--but you have my promise.”

Merlin sobered. He'd meant that as a joke, nothing more, but there was no mistaking Arthur's tone. He feared saying the words, he was sure they would burn him on their way out, but he owed them, he felt them to be true in his blood, like tidelines of love, so he let them out. “An' mine.” 

The next morning when Merlin was helping Kilgey onto the nag, Arthur came out of the house. “You don't need to to go back to St Blazey.”

Kilgey's foot slipped out of the stirrup and crashed back down. Still tottering, he wheeled round. “I be afraid ye're mistaken, sur. Needs must. I 'ave to hie back to the poorhouse.”

“As a matter of fact, no.” Arthur strolled further out into the yard and took an envelope out of his pocket. “I just received this. It's a message from my friends at Dower Manor, the Du Lacs. Seeing as they're expecting, they're looking for a man of all jobs to look after their property, someone to help their maid, and take on responsibility of the day to day management of the staff. They were asking if I knew a suitable candidate for the job.” Arthur pinned Kilgey with his gaze. “And I thought of you. Unless you object to the nature of the duties, of course.”

Kilgey gaped and staggered in place, a hand on his heart. “I'll be damned.”

As for Merlin's heart, it got big with unqualified love. He wanted to share the stab of feeling with Arthur, tell him outright what all of this – and him – meant to him. But he knew that this was not the right moment, that it was Kilgey's time for rejoicing, so he treasured the awareness deep in his chest. There'd be all the time in the world for him and Arthur to come to terms with the brimming going on in Merlin's heart.

“Ee ain't pullin' me leg, are 'ee?” Kilgey asked. 

“No,” Arthur said.

“An' 'tis ain't charity?”

“I'm completely indifferent to the matter.” Arthur stuck his chest out. “I wouldn't have pressured the du Lacs into accepting someone in their household they don't want.”

Merlin's heart filled his chest with its beating, with the relentless affection he felt for Arthur. It was feeding his lungs and his blood and his marrow. It was painting his world in bright stripes that nearly blinded him. He smiled like a loon, cheeks puffing, when Kilgey said, “Well, then I be acceptin'.”

Merlin hugged Kilgey tight, slapped him hard on his back, and said, “I'll drive 'ee to Dower meself, 'ee old codger. I'll drive 'ee meself.”

When he mounted the cart, he turned his head and beamed at Arthur. Only once he was sure Arthur had seen, did he give a tug to the reins and drive on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wee bit of a Cornish Glossary:
> 
> Ager:ugly  
> Bal: mine  
> Piljack: poor scurvy fellow  
> Bussa: daft person  
> Tuss: literally this one means "erection", but it's also a general insult for someone inept or unpleasant.  
> Thee’rt some teasy: You’re very bad-tempered.


	26. The Parade

The Militia column marched in double file along the Truro street, their uniforms a bright burst of red, their sabres polished at their hip, their hilt like flowerings of silver and iron ornamenting their belts. They had slung their muskets over their shoulders and the bayonets glimmered white in the haze of the November day, with a spark that dazzled the eye. The butts of their weapons clanged against the soldiers' gear; they slapped their chests in the rhythm of the march, the sound following upon that of their heels on gravel.

As they passed, several soldiers accepted the flowers the populace offered them. They came in bouquets and poseys, nosegays and single-stemmed. There were violets and carnations in the bunches, pear blossoms and ranunculi. Their petals scattered on the road, carpeting it pink and purple, white and orange. 

Unlike his troops, Captain Bedivere didn't stop for the crowd. He rode on, his hands tight around the reins looped around his hands, his head held high. Behind him, her back straight, rode Vivian. She waved her hand in broad swipes of her palm, acknowledging the populace's salute, the ring on her finger catching the light of day and reflecting it in narrow shining bands.

Gwen felt Lancelot's hands squeeze at her waist. “It's quite lucky Captain Bedivere got more interested in pursuing Vivian than in getting to the bottom of the smuggler situation.”

“Yes,” Gwen said, watching Bedivere and Vivian parade down the road. “It was an excellent distraction.”

“Indeed, all her denunciations merely ended up putting her in the way of a captain of the Militia.” Lancelot rubbed Gwen's side. “And the Captain in hers. A match made in heaven.”

“The Captain must never have enjoyed his job so much.” Gwen's face set in a smile. “Nor did he ever attend to his actual duties so little.”

“And romance blossomed.”

Gwen rattled out a theatrical sigh. “Love finds a way.”

Lancelot's face gentled from the wryness of humour to an expression of genuine feeling. “One that allowed our friends to keep their freedom.”

Gwen's gaze travelled on to Merlin and Arthur. They were at the opposite end of the street. They stood shoulder to shoulder, their hands grazing, but far enough apart for their stance to be casual. Like the rest of the throng, they had their eyes on the troops.

“I expect they're glad to see the militia go,” Guinevere said, studying Merlin and Arthur with all the openness that distance allowed. They exchanged a word without leaning close. Their faces were mostly blank, observant of the motions of the soldiers, but for the spark in Merlin's eyes and the acknowledgement of it that was in Arthur's. “But I suspect that's not their main concern now. They're enjoying the quiet, their life together.”

“Like us, then.” 

Gwen rested her hands on her belly. It was rounder now, with a new tautness to it, but she wasn't showing a great deal. She looked forward to the day she did, when the lines of her changed and she could rest her hand under her heart and feel the swell of her body. She wanted to track the changes in it and enjoy them moment by moment. “Yes, like us.” With different challenges to their lives, but in some ways the same as well. “I think they're happy at Trevena.”

“I'm glad.” Lancelot looked to them too. “As elusive as that might be, and as instrumental as I was to depriving him of it, I never stopped hoping for Arthur to find happiness. Now, thanks to you, I think he has.”

This line of thinking would always make Gwen cringe. Merlin had made overtures of friendship to her and Gwen wanted to return them, but she wasn't sure she could, not when she'd entertained the thoughts she'd had. Maybe little by little she could trust herself to forget her past failings. “I don't see what I did to contribute.” 

Lancelot tipped his head downwards and looked at her with a burn to his eyes. “You were splendid and tireless in your efforts for them. I don't know anyone else who'd have done as much.”

“Oh, that. I'm sure there are plenty of people who would have helped if they had been in a position to.” Gwen glanced at Elena. She had gone over to Merlin and was smiling and babbling forth at him all the while petting his nag. “I'm sure she'd have done it too.”

“Yes, perhaps.” Lancelot nodded his head. “But she wouldn't have had the skill that you have.”

Gwen rolled her eyes at the excessive praise. “You speak as you do because you're my husband, but your saying nice things is neither here nor there.” Gwen dipped her head against the flushing of her face. “On the other I'm quite glad for Elena. As awful as it sounds, she's going to be happier with her sister moving away. Elena is going to flourish without Vivian.”

“I'm afraid I agree.”

Gwen snorted. “We must be a pair of horrible people.”

“But well matched.”

Following the militia column with his eyes, Lancelot said. “There, they're turning the corner.”

“To be gone from our lives.” Dust rose in the soldiers' wake, thickening the air. “Finally.”

“I've never been so glad to see the last of a bunch of people in my life.” Lancelot threaded his arm through hers. “Seeing as they're gone and there's nothing more to see, shall we head back?”

Gwen gave a peek at the sky. It was grey and closing in, with lumbering crowds blackening the horizon and the air crackling with the kind of static that promised rain. “Yes. We'd better get home now. I want to start writing my Christmas invitations.”

“Isn't it too early?” 

“It's never too early.” Gwen laughed. “There's always a lot to do if one wants to plan the perfect seasonal party.”

She reset her shawl on her shoulders, clutched her closed parasol more tightly, and turned to go. As she did, she saw a man on the balcony of the building opposite. He was tall and squarely set, with a scraggly beard, and flowing, on-the-shoulder hair, part of which was tied in a queue. There was something of the sailor about him. The cut of his jacket and the tan to his skin spoke of days spent at sea, in the open. There was also a darkness to his expression, an impenetrability, that made her pause and shiver, but she wasn't sure whether that was only her fancy, or there truly was some forbidding quality truly inherent to the man she was looking at.

He was standing in the shadows of the casement, the white lace of a curtain ghosting around the sturdy mass of his body, the feeble sunlight burning around it. From his perch he was casing the crowd, eyes lingering on the opposite end of the street to Gwen's position. Following his line of sight, Gwen turned her head and her gaze landed on Merlin and Arthur. She looked back up to the balcony and could entertain no more doubt. The man was observing her friends. Questions swirling in her mind, she cocked her head. Who was the man and what could he possibly want? She had no answer and wished she did.

When the man realised Gwen was watching him, he stepped behind the curtain. His shadow lingered a while and then the contours of it faded too.

“Guinevere?” Lancelot put pressure on her elbow. “Is something the matter?”

“No,” Gwen said, her frown releasing. “No.” She poked at the question, probed her instincts, and added, “I think that for once things are all right.”


	27. Godspeed

The waves crashed against the shore, large swells slamming against the base of the cliffs and throwing a lace-work of spray at the rock face. The sky darkened, heavy with tightly-knit clouds that blanketed the smoky sea. A chilly haze set in like the thinnest of fogs. It hovered below the top of the bluff in milky stripes. To the east bolts of lightning flared behind the canvas of the clouds, shimmering deep within their framework. Screeds of thunder tolled far away, the sound dulled by distance. 

The ship tacked and made course for the open sea, its sails spread out and full with the wind. Mists enveloped the top of the mast and the upper rigging; the crow's nest was shrouded deep in them. The bowsprit pointed like a lance towards a corridor of light that had opened to the West between two bodies of cloud. It shone orange and purple and a deep yellow bordering on ochre.

When a cold drizzling rain began, Merlin turned up the collar of his shirt and turned away from the shore. He waded back to the beach, the wet sand sticking to the soles of his feet, and rolled his trousers down to his ankles. The loose threads at the hem brushed the bone and tickled skin. He snapped a few and made do with the rest. He slipped on his boots but didn't tie the laces. His feet were slabs of ice. Seeking warmth, he rubbed his hands together and stamped around. When his blood got going again, he rejoined Arthur at the top of the strand strip. Together they turned around and made for the rocky path up leading to Trevena. 

As they went through their paces, they bumped shoulders and rubbed hips, glanced the backs of their hands together and touched arms. Their gazes didn't always meet but when they did Merlin's lips creased into a smile and lines dug around his eyes. He felt them etch their course on his skin.

Their strides matched and so did the pattern of their breathing. It was an in and out that came natural to Merlin, one suited the workings of his lungs. When one paused, the other stopped too. And when they started again, their bodies once again veered along the same axis, until it converged and they had to break apart again. Merlin almost regretted having to range away. His body felt tilted on a course meant to converge with Arthur's.

Before they could get in sight of the house, thunder cracked and rain crashed down in thick washings. They got soaked in a few seconds, hair plastered to skulls, clothes to backs. They shared a look, one full of wryness, and started running towards the house. Its chimney, Merlin could tell even from a distance, was smoking in large puffs, and lights glowed through the glazed panes.

With warmth as a temptation, they pushed to a run, grappling at each other's bodies and propelling each other forward.

By the time they closed the door on the squall, they were soaked through and hiccuping with laughter. Merlin's burred low in his chest while Arthur's came out in a powerful powerful peels that issued from his lungs the moment he threw his head back. A fire crackled in the parlour with all the little poppings of resin bubbles and the rustling of dislodged logs. With that to look forward to, Merlin couldn't regret the outing. Not for one moment.

Arthur disappeared into the other room first. He called out to Merlin, his footfall heavy as he moved around. He shouted at Merlin to come in if he didn't want to catch the chill of the century. “There's tea and honey in here, more honey than tea, as you like it.” His tread pulled noises out of the floorboards. “I swear Alice spoils you rotten.” Before joining Arthur, Merlin turned to the closed door. He could only see the sturdy door frame, the polished lines of its inside carvings, but he could imagine the anatomy of the country outside, peaky, moss-clad crags, stretches of beach and a sea choppy with the power of the wind. He pictured that and a vessel cutting across the ocean, sails in full furl. He said, “Godspeed.”

Once the words were out, he shrugged water off his hair, worked his face into a smile, and went to a clop into the parlour.

 

The End

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cornwall](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4367372) by [Merlocked18](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merlocked18/pseuds/Merlocked18)




End file.
